Where Eagles Dare
by Nutzkie
Summary: When Ron starts doubting his value in Team Possible, he jumps at a chance to improve his skills.  But what happens when the sitch becomes more than he bargained for?  Will he be able to pull through?  And what about Kim?  The answers are up in the air.
1. Prologue

**Required Legal Mumbo-Jumbo:**

For the record, I don't own KP. The same goes for any characters, settings, descriptions or catch-phrases which you may or may not happen to recognize from the show. Any and all attempts to sue me will be met with severe disappointment. (Can't get blood from a turnip, folks.) Employees and their families are ineligible. Must be 21 or older. No purchase necessary. Void where prohibited. See store for details. Prosecutors will be violated. All rights reserved. So there!

* * *

**- Chapter One -**

_"Join the Navy, and see the world!"_ had been the recruiting poster's tag line.

Somehow, that poster had failed to mention that the world is three-quarters water.

From his vantage point at 15,000 feet, the blue ocean expanse stretched endlessly toward the horizon, changing shade as it went, before blending seamlessly into an equally blue sky. It was a study in sensory deprivation, which combined forces with the engine's monotonous drone to create an aura of boredom so intense one feared his brain might pickle in its own juices.

_Mmmmmm_... Pickles! Now _there_ was a thought.

His mind had just started drifting toward thoughts of lunch, when it was yanked hard from the realm of daydreams by a sudden intrusion of reality.

"Look alive! Look alive!" a voice crackled over the radio. "Zekes at one o'clock high!"

For Lieutenant Ronald Stoppable, this was a call to arms, and it was just the sort of thing that he lived for. Eagerly seizing the controls of his F4U Corsair, he gunned the massive 1,850-horsepower radial engine to the red line and began to climb, quickly ascending above the enemy formations. The Zeke had maneuverability on its side, but the "Bent-Winged Bird," as the Corsair was known, had speed in its corner, and when speed was combined with the advantage of altitude, a Zeke was an easy target indeed.

Glancing out the right side of the cockpit, he could see his prey. A squadron of eight planes was beginning to dive onto the formation SB2C Helldivers that his own squadron was charged with protecting. A quick kick to the rudder pedals and a smooth dip of the control yoke sent him banking toward his soon-to-be victims. It was time to kick some butt, and take some names.

Proceeding through a high, banking turn, he was soon diving down onto the tails of the enemy. Singling out the one who appeared to be the flight leader, he accelerated further into the dive, drawing a bead with his crosshairs as he went. At a range of 500 yards, he opened fire, the drone of the engine quickly being drowned out by the staccato chatter of six .50 caliber machine guns. The Zeke instantaneously disintegrated under the onslaught, being blown to shrapnel as the white-hot tracer rounds ignited its fuel tanks.

The squadron was thrown into chaos as the Corsair tore through the formation at over 500 miles per hour. Pilots turned and banked wildly, trying desperately to see where the strike had come from. It was an instinctive response from a squadron, which had so unexpectedly lost its leadership, and it gave Ron the opportunity to set-up his next move.

Using the speed of the dive to his advantage, he pulled up into a steep climb; then banked again for another pass.

As he started down once again, one of the Zekes pitched upward to meet him head-on, and the pair were soon exchanging fire at a closing speed of nearly 800 miles per hour. Ron could hear rounds impacting along his engine cowling, but held his line as the Corsair's heavy armor simply shrugged them off. He fired another burst, and the Zeke simply vanished, disappearing into a fireball of debris.

He juked left as the Zeke's cowling, its spinning propeller still attached, streaked by his wing. Then, making certain he was clear of the debris field, he turned back into the formation, searching for another target.

He found it in the form of a lone Zeke, which had strayed away from its squadron mates. Quickly realizing his predicament, the enemy pilot began wildly turning left and right, desperately trying to shake his pursuer. Ron was unrelenting, however, as he quickly closed the range, being ever-so-careful not to let himself slip in front of his intended prey.

He was close: Close enough to see the "Meatball" insignia painted on the wingtips, close enough to see the streaks of powder residue that trailed back from each of the guns, close enough to see the pilot himself, close enough to see... _Wade?!_

Ron blinked in confusion at the image of the pre-teen tech-guru staring back at him from his computer's desktop monitor.

"Hey Ron!" Wade said, cheerfully. "I'm not interrupting anything, am I?"

"Only one of the most crucial naval battles of World War Two." Ron replied, dryly.

"Playing 'Wings of War' again, are we?" Wade inquired with a knowing grin.

"Affirmative."

"Battle of Midway?"

"Sibuyan Sea, if you must know." Ron replied again, with more than a twinge of irritation evident in his voice. "So what's up?"

"Trouble." the young webmaster responded. "Electronique is making waves in Go City."

"Ahhh... Mission mode, then." Ron replied, pausing abruptly when something in the back of his mind clicked.

"Wait a sec… Isn't she Team Go's arch-nemesis?" he asked with a raised eyebrow.

"Normally yes, but Team Go is at a superheroes' conference in Cincinnati. Looks like it's up to you guys this time 'round"

"Ah, okay then… I guess that… wait… Superheroes have conventions?"

"Apparently so."

"Heh… Who would've thought. Okay, then, what's the plan?"

"Meet Kim at her place. Your ride will pick you up there. I'll brief the two of you together once you're on your way."

"Total coolness, dude. You rock, as usual!" Ron lauded. It was then that he noticed the odd-looking plate in front of his tech-savvy friend.

"Dude, what are you eating?" he asked.

"What, these?" Wade responded. "These are buffalo chicken wings."

"Wow! What a novel concept?" Ron incredulously observed. "So how do they do that?"

"Do what?"

"Get the buffalo to marry the chicken."

"Say again?"

"I mean, I wouldn't think that a chicken would be attracted to a big, hairy buffalo. Chickens are so cute."

"Okay, let me break this down..."

"So what does the baby look like?"

"Awwww... _man."_

"Is it like a buffalo with wings and a beak?"

"Uhhh, no."

"A big, hairy chicken? With horns?"

"Ron... It's just a different type of seasoning!"

"Oh, I see."

"All right, then... Getting back to..."

"Does this chicken lay big, fuzzy eggs?"

"Ugh… No, dude."

"Ahhhh... So the buffalo's the girl."

"_Narrrrrrgh_."

"Interesting... That's a big girl."

"Ron!"

"Huh... Wha?"

"Just get yourself over to Kim's place!"

"Oh, right dude! On it!"

And with that, the blond, sidekick extraordinaire was out the door.

* * *

_**Author's Notes:**_

Well, this is my second attempt at an original, multi-chapter work, so I'm expecting my skills to be a little on the rusty side of things. Wish me luck!

As you may have already guessed, this is just a prologue: A simple lead-in before delving into the real meat of the story. While Ron's love for video games may seem somewhat the trifle, I can assure you that it will come into play later on down the line… I'm just not saying how! (Insert evil laugh here)

As for the aircraft mentioned here, everything's factual:

_F4U Corsair:_ Designed in 1938 by noted aircraft designer Rex Biesel, and built by the Chance-Vought Aircraft Company, the first Corsair flew on May 29, 1940. Equipped with a 1,850 horsepower R-2800 Double-Wasp radial engine, the Corsair was the first American military aircraft to exceed 400 miles per hour in level flight: A remarkable achievement, considering that in order to withstand the stress of deck landings, carrier aircraft were necessarily heavier and more overbuilt than their land-based counterparts.

Known for its long, cylindrical engine cowling and inverted gull-wings, the Corsair came to be known by nicknames such as "Hose-Nose" and "The Bent-Winged Bird." To Japanese pilots who flew against it, however, the Corsair was known simply as "Whistling Death." (A reference to the sound made by air passing through the Corsair's unique wing-root mounted intakes.)

_Zeke:_ The Mitsubishi A6M2 Type 00 was a carrier-based fighter plane used by the Japanese Imperial Navy, (a.k.a. the Nihon Kaigun), throughout the course of the war.

The American military, in an effort to make enemy planes easier to identify in combat, created a system in which all Japanese aircraft were given code names. "Zeke" was the name assigned to this small and nimble fighter. History, on the other hand, has since chosen to forever dub this plane as the "Zero:" A reference to its type number.

The Zekes mentioned here didn't hold up too well against Ron's Corsair, which is more of a testament to the shortcomings of the Zeke than to anything else. The Zeke was renowned for its agility, but this ability came at a price. In order to be agile, it had to be light in weight, and so the Zeke's designers were forced to sacrifice armor. The end result of this trade-off was an overall inability to absorb much in the way of damage. So while the Zeke was a very difficult bird to catch, if you could get a shot at one, it was highly vulnerable.

_Curtiss SB2C Helldiver:_ A two-seat, carrier-based dive-bomber first placed into service by the United States Navy on November 11, 1943. Larger and faster than the SBD-1 Dauntless that it was intended to replace, the Curtis Helldiver suffered from problems of instability and mechanical malfunctions throughout most of its career. As a result, many crews actually preferred the aging Dauntless, and dubbed the SB2C with the moniker "Son of a B--, Second Class."

To spite these shortcomings, however, the Curtis SB2C sank more enemy shipping than any other plane of the war.

_Battle of Midway:_ Widely regarded as the turning point of the Pacific Theater, the Battle of Midway started out as an intelligence coup by the United States Navy. Thanks to a recent break in the Japanese "Purple" code, an intercepted radio message indicated that the Imperial Japanese Fleet would strike the tiny outpost of Midway Island in the Mid-Pacific, as a means of luring out and destroying the American aircraft carriers, which had survived the attack on Pearl Harbor. This information led the Americans to stage their own ambush of the Japanese Fleet. In the ensuing battle, which took place between June 4th and June 7th, 1942, the Japanese carriers Hiru, Soyru, Akagi and Kaga were all sunk.

Although the Japanese could claim the sinking of the American carrier _Yorktown_ as a result of the battle, the overall outcome was a stunning victory for the Americans and is widely regarded as the turning point in the Pacific combat theater.

_Battle of the Sibuyan Sea:_ Fought between October 23rd and 26th, 1944, this was one of four separate engagements that collectively comprise the Battle of Leyte Gulf: One of the largest, and most crucial naval battles in history. In this action, the main element of the Japanese Fleet, (codenamed "Center Force"), was attacked by air elements of the American Navy's Task Force # 38. In the face of allied air superiority, the Japanese suffered heavy losses, including that of the super-battleship Musashi. The majority of the damage from this engagement was inflicted by Curtis SB2C Helldivers.

The entire exchange between Ron and Wade regarding the plate of buffalo wings was inspired by my listening to a radio advertisement for a local restaurant chain. When I first heard it, it just struck me as the sort of random conversation that these two would have.

See y'all in the next chapter!

_Nutzkie…_


	2. The Choosing

**Required Legal Mumbo-Jumbo:**

For the record, I don't own KP. The same goes for any characters, settings, descriptions or catch-phrases which you may or may not happen to recognize from the show. Any and all attempts to sue me will be met with severe disappointment. (Can't get blood from a turnip, folks.) Employees and their families are ineligible. Must be 21 or older. No purchase necessary. Void where prohibited. See store for details. Prosecutors will be violated. All rights reserved. So there!

* * *

**- Chapter Two -**

"Thanks for the lift, Mr. Earhart."

"You're more than welcome, Kim. It's the least we could do after you got us back on course following that communications blackout."

"_Meh,_ it was no big." Kim replied with a dismissive wave. "Anybody could have jerry-rigged a directional radio receiver from a microwave oven and a partially complete erector set."

"Well we appreciate it just the same. Why don't you go back to the cargo bay and relax? We'll be in the air for a while."

"Spankin' idea… Please and thank-you." Kim chimed, turning to walk back toward the aft-compartments.

Kim had to smile as she thought about the new significance that transit time had come take in their missions. Ever since that night at the prom when she and Ron had admitted their true feelings for one another, this had become some of the best quality time that they spent together. Away from the distractions of missions, parents, friends and schoolwork, and with the pilots busily flying the plane, it was just Ron and herself: Free to simply relax and enjoy being in each others' presence.

Images of the many hours they had spent huddled together amongst crates and equipment, cuddling and kissing as the plane flew on into the night flooded into her mind, and her smile only broadened at the passing parade of memories.

Her smile quickly faded, however, as she fully entered the cargo bay. Ron was on the floor, leaning against one of the crates, and he was obviously stewing over something.

Concerned by this unexpected behavior, she moved to kneel beside him, placing a comforting hand on his shoulder.

"Okay, I'll bite." she stated playfully, hoping to pick-up his mood somewhat. "What's the sitch?"

"Huh? Oh, it's nothing. Nothing at all." He replied in a most unconvincing tone.

Kim wasn't buying it.

"Ron..." she stated, "Try to remember who you're talking to here. I know you well enough to tell when something is eating you. So spill already!"

Ron sighed heavily, averting his eyes from Kim's sympathetic gaze.

"It's nothing that you'd be interested in. Trust me." He replied, heavily.

Finding herself somewhat put-off by being rebuffed again, Kim decided to switch tactics. She moved over and sat down on the floor in front of Ron, placing her self directly in his field of vision.

"Ron, look at me!" she demanded. "We're best friends, both since and for ever, and that means no secrets. Do you get that? When something is bothering one of us, we unload it. We don't bottle it up."

Ron found himself looking directly into the pair of emerald-green eyes that he had come to love so dearly, and his resolve immediately weakened. Kim wasn't going to let this go; that much he was sure of. Plus, there was the little matter of her being right.

He looked right at the young redhead, sitting eagerly and attentively in front of him, and took a deep breath. It was time to "'fess-up."

"Be honest, KP. Am I an asset on missions?" he asked in a near whisper.

Kim was clearly taken aback by the nature of the question.

"Of course you are, Ron." Kim replied reassuringly, quickly recovering from the shock. "I wouldn't be dragging you along all the time if you weren't an asset to me. For cryin' out loud, I couldn't save the world without you."

Ron seemed somewhat less than convinced.

"I know you think that, Kimbo, but what do I really contribute to the team?" he asked, pleadingly. "Sometimes I think all I really do around here is act goofy and lose my pants."

"Hey, you do lots of stuff." Kim replied, emphatically. "Just look at tonight's mission. You were the one who blew-up Electronique's lair."

"I tripped and fell against the self-destruct button." Ron admitted, incredulously. "I didn't even know that the stupid thing was there. I just got lucky was all."

"So what of it?" Kim asked, rhetorically. "I thought your 'dumb skills' were a big part of your fighting style."

"Dumb _luck_, Kim. Let's be honest with ourselves." Ron admitted again. "And that's really the root of the problem."

"Explain, please?" Kim demanded, leaning back and crossing her arms over her chest.

"It's like this, KP." he dutifully explained. "Most of what I contribute to our operation is just luck-of-the-draw type stuff. Tripping over the right cord, falling on the right button, distracting the villain at the right time, et cetera. Sure, it's usually effective, but how often can we keep going back to that well? I mean, how long is it going to be before my luck finally runs out?"

"Ugh, Ron..." Kim groaned, placing her face into her hands. "This isn't another 'actuarial obsession' like last time, is it? Because if you start going crazy about 'odds' again..."

"No, it's totally different this time, KP." Ron said, as reassuringly as he could. "At least I think it is… probably… yeah."

"Way to go, Mister Decisive."

"No, I'm serious about this! I mean, so far I've always fallen on the right button. But what if next time I fall on the _wrong_ button? I could wind up really hurting someone. And who's that gonna be? Rufus? ...myself? ..._you? _I mean, if you were ever hurt because of something_ I_ did, I... I..."

His words trailed off, indicating that he was either unable, or unwilling to even complete the thought now running through his mind.

Kim was stunned by this sudden outpouring of emotion. Sure, she was aware that Ron was concerned for her well-being, and that he took great pride in always watching her back. But it was a shock to see this concern so blatantly exposed. It was at once both unsettling and touching, and it gave her new appreciation for just how strongly this young man cared for her.

"Hey, now... Don't beat yourself up like that." Kim chided, once she had regained her composure. "Luck isn't the only thing you contribute, after all. You bring lots of abilities to the team."

"Oh yeah?" Ron replied, indignantly. "Like what?"

"Well, let's see... There's the thing with the uhhhh... ummm... Well, you can do that... ehhhhh... Hey, what about the time that... uhhhhhhh... hmmmmmm..."

"Yeah, that's about what I thought." Ron replied with a smirk.

"Ron, look... It's not as bad as..." an exasperated Kim replied.

"Don't bother, KP." Ron retorted, cutting her off. "I think we both know what the sitch is here."

"Ron, _please_..."

"I'm sorry, Kim," Ron sullenly said, getting up to walk toward the back of the plane. "Don't take it personally, but I think I just need some time alone right now."

Kim could only watch helplessly as the figure of the most important person in her life slumped down onto some rice sacks and heaved a heavy sigh. He was hurting right now: She knew this too well. And what was worse was the fact that there was nothing she could do to stop it. She felt helpless: unsure of what came next.

There was one thing she was sure of, however: This was going to be a very lonely flight home.

* * *

Ask any medical expert and they'll be sure to tell you; walking can be highly therapeutic. It has been known to improve circulation, promote cardiovascular health, increase lung capacity, stimulate muscle growth, and you tend to meet the nicest people while you're doing it.

It's also a good activity for the guy who's got a lot on his mind.

For Ron Stoppable, this was currently the case. Without a word, he had walked home from where their ride had dropped them off in front of Kim's house, his thoughts precluding any awareness of his surroundings. It had taken him only a few minutes to cover the short distance between Kim's home and his. When he finally turned the corner onto his own street, his head hung low as he walked the final few yards to the foot of his home's front path…

And kept right on walking.

As the quiet streets and manicured yards of suburbia slowly gave way to the storefronts and streetlights of downtown, the sullen young man hardly seemed to notice. A thousand different thoughts fluttered aimlessly through his mind like moths orbiting a campfire, all of them centering on a single, overriding question:

What was his place in Team Possible?

Sure, he brought a certain amount of luck to the table, but that wasn't really something you could count on. Much like his so-called Mystical Monkey Powers, it tended to come and go. What was more, it had the potential to be every bit as much a liability as it did an asset, should it ever decide to leave him or turn against him at the wrong time.

He had provided distractions on many occasions, but that wasn't really much to talk about either. It wasn't so much a skill as it was a task: Something which anybody with half-a-brain could do. Heck, even Rufus had provided distractions on several occasions. If that was the case, Kim could do just as well by carrying a naked mole rat of her own into battle.

He was loathe to admit it, but he couldn't for the life of him find any unique quality that he brought to the team. The more he thought about it, the more he just seemed to be in the way. He wanted to be there with Kim, to stand beside her through the thick of the fight, to help her when she needed him. On the other hand, however, he didn't want to be the cause for her needing help. This was, after all, something he just couldn't live with.

He was a liability to his best friend, he finally admitted, and this thought only served to drive him even deeper into the realm of depression.

He turned a corner into an alleyway, so utterly absorbed in his rapidly growing funk that he failed to notice the gaping hole, which had just opened in the pavement before him.

Ron wasn't sure what had just happened. One instant he was moping along, minding his own business, and the next instant he was taking a hard fall into some sort of underground cavity. Groaning with discomfort, he slowly hauled himself to his feet and looked around. It didn't take long to recognize that he was standing inside of a Global Justice transport tube.

"Ho, boy!" he gulped, realizing what was about to happen. "I'm definitely gonna regret grande-sizing that burrito this afternoon."

After several seconds of subterranean freefall, the tube lurched to a stop, disgorging its contents unceremoniously onto the concrete floor.

"Awwww, man! Why can't you guys just have a normal door like everyone else?" Ron groused as he picked himself up from the floor once again. He blinked several times, trying to make sense of what he was seeing.

He had expected to see the GJ command center, just as he had all the times before when this had happened, with technicians in white coats scurrying busily about, and an eye patch-clad Dr. Director standing watch over the entire operation. Instead, all that greeted him this time was darkness: darkness and silence.

"Uh, hello!" he called out into the void. "Dude without a clue over here! Could somebody shed some light on the situation, please and thank you?"

Several spotlights chose that moment to come to life, all of them focused on his position, fairly blinding him in the process.

"Ugh! I'm sorry I asked." He lamented under his breath, squinting strongly under the harsh glare.

"Mister Ronald Adrian Stoppable?" An anonymous voice suddenly called out from the darkness.

"Uhhh… _Maybe_." Came Ron's weak reply.

"Current member, senior class, Middleton High School..."

"Ummmmmm…"

"Social security number 572-63…"

"Okay, okay… You obviously know who I am."

"Yes we do," the voice confirmed, "but we're more interested in what you've done."

"Ahem… ahhhhhhh… Listen, if this is about something I've broken, I'm sure my parents insurance will…"

"Relax, son. This isn't about any damages."

"Ohhhh-kaaaaay… Then I'm officially confused."

"Allow me to be a little more specific, then." The voice replied. "Approximately nine months ago, you took part in a mission to thwart a global domination plot in Germany?"

"Uhhhh… Not sure on that, dude, but I'll take your word for it. When you go on as many missions as Kim and I do, after a while, they just kinda start blending together."

"And on said mission, you had the opportunity to operate an AV-8B strike fighter in a combat role?"

"Oh yeah! That much rings a bell! Man, I was on my A-game that night." He rubbed his knuckles across his chest, proud that for once, somebody was actually noticing his handiwork.

"And you are the current points leader on the Midwest-Region server for 'Wings of War?'"

"Yeeeeeah, well, when it comes to the mad gameage skills, the Ronster is… Wait, wait a sec… What has _that_ got to do with the price of eggs?"

"Perhaps an explanation is in order."

"_Hmmmm…_ Ya' _think?"_

With that, another spotlight came on, revealing a man in a neatly pressed, military-style uniform. He stood no more than ten feet in front of Ron's position, the collection of medals and insignia he wore seeming to indicate a person of some rank. Ron suddenly felt the unnerving suspicion that he was in some sort of trouble.

"Nearly a century ago," the man began, "the first combat pilots took to the skies in machines made of wood, wire and canvas. In craft that would barely qualify as orange crates with wings, they left the confines of mother earth to do battle. Without instruments, without flaps, without brakes or throttles, they fought savage engagements, inventing rules and tactics as they went.

"In these hellish battles, they discovered danger and heroism beyond anything which had preceded it. They discovered the basic rules of aerial engagement, a code of honor, and perhaps most importantly, they discovered a common bond: a camaraderie far stronger than any forged of nationality or political allegiance.

"Eventually, these men formed a sort of brotherhood: a fraternal organization dedicated to using the power of flight for goals far loftier than conquest or national defense. They vowed to use their skills and their machines to defend freedom, justice and liberty wherever it may be threatened, and they called themselves 'Thunder Eagles.'"

"Uh-huh, yeah." Ron finally broke in. "Still wondering what this has to do with me."

"It's quite simple, actually." The uniformed man continued. "Today, the Thunder Eagles exist as a branch of the Global Justice network; a paramilitary wing, if you will. While Global Justice's agents function in a law enforcement role, investigating crimes and apprehending suspects, the Eagles provide the bite behind the badge, neutralizing those perpetrators for whom traditional criminal proceedings simply aren't enough. In a sense, we take down the criminals who operate above the law."

"Ahhhhh, I see! So you dudes go out and bomb the bad guys!" Ron exclaimed, suddenly catching on.

"That would be the short version of it, yes." The man said with a smile. "To do this, however, we need pilots, and for this purpose we monitor a variety of channels, searching for individuals whose character and aerial skills stand-out amongst all others."

"Wait… you mentioned my 'Wings of War' scores earlier. Were you guys monitoring me or something?"

"I'm afraid so." The man admitted. "We do apologize for invading your privacy in that way, but it was necessary at the time that we stay under the radar."

"Well, it's all okay, I guess." Ron thought aloud. "But I'm still feeling majorly confused here. Just what the heck does all of this mean for me, then, exactly?"

The man placed his face into the palm of his hand and sighed. He would obviously need to spell it out for this kid.

"This is what we refer to as a 'Tapping Out' ceremony." He explained. "It is how we approach individuals who have exhibited the skills and abilities we look for, and how we offer them the opportunity to join our ranks."

"Question…" Ron interjected, raising his hand for effect. "Just who exactly is _we?_"

No sooner were the words out of his mouth, then a series of floodlights charged to life, revealing a ring of uniformed individuals encircling the entire room.

"We are the Thunder Eagles," the man stated succinctly. "And we wish to offer you an opportunity: The opportunity to become one of us."

Ron could only stand frozen in place, blinking in confusion. He had certainly been hit with some bombshells in his day, but this was a genuine, certified, fifteen-megaton thermo-nuke. In desperation, he tried opening his mouth, but words simply would not form.

"If you agree," the man said, continuing with his explanation, "then you will enter our organization as a trainee. You will go through physical conditioning and classroom instruction, putting yourself in the best physical and academic shape that you've ever been in. You will be schooled in survival and evasion techniques, and receive both hand-to-hand combat and small arms training. These will prove useful should you ever be forced down inside hostile territory.

"You will be trained in a variety of aircraft, ranging from bombers, to transports, to attack planes and fighters. Eventually you will choose an area of specialty, and be assigned a position within the organization after completion of your training."

"Because… I'm… good… at… video… games?" Ron stammered, not entirely believing the words that were now coming out of his mouth.

"Flight simulators." The man corrected. "There's a level of realism in those programs that goes way beyond a simple game, making them a fair test of aeronautical skills"

"Yeah, this is true." Ron thought aloud.

"So, what is your decision, young man?" the man asked, his tone clearly all-business in its nature.

"Wha… what? You mean I have to decide right _now?_" Ron stammered.

"I'm afraid so." The man replied. "This is a one time offer. Either you leave here tonight with us or without us. Either way, your decision will be final."

Ron's head was now fairly spinning out of control. There was so much to process, and he only had a few moments to work with. Admittedly, he didn't know much about military training, but from the little he did know, he suspected it to be a hellish ordeal of hard work and long days. Still, it would be so cool to look people in the eye and tell them he was a fighter jock.

Then there was something else to consider: His conversation with Kim earlier that evening.

During their flight home, he had lamented that his limited skills translated into limited contributions to the team, and Kim had all but agreed with this assessment. Now, as he stood here in the glow of the spotlight, it seemed he had been handed the opportunity of a lifetime. The fighting and survival skills would certainly come in handy while working in the field, and the ability to fly a plane: well that just had to be good for something, didn't it?

"_Besides,"_ Ron thought to himself. _"Fighting for freedom and justice? Isn't that what Team Possible is all about?"_

Ron looked up at the uniformed man with a steely gaze that conveyed an intensity and determination seldom displayed by the young boy.

"All right, I'm in." he said flatly.

"Excellent!" the man said, a broad smile creasing his face. "We'll begin your training immediately. If you would please follow Lieutenant Andrews, over here, he will show you to your transportation."

Ron was downright giddy as he walked past the uniformed man and toward his new future. "Man, oh man! Wait 'till KP hears about this!" he chimed.

Just then, his forward progress was halted by a restraining hand on his arm.

"Just so you're aware," the man growled in a low tone that brokered no argument, "all Eagles training is done under deep cover. You will have no contact with anyone on the outside while you are part of the program. That goes from this very moment, until the day you graduate and get your wings. Got it?"

"_Eeeep… _Yeah, got it." Ron gulped.

"Good. Now get moving, soldier."

Ron quickly complied, moving toward the door indicated by one of the other officers.

Once Ron was out of earshot, the uniformed man turned to one of the junior officers amongst the group.

"We got that jamming signal in place yet, Ensign?" he asked in a no-nonsense tone.

"Affirmative, sir." The young Ensign replied. "The signal is up and running. That tracking chip in his neck isn't going to be leading anybody, anywhere." He then turned to the older gentleman with a quizzical look on his face.

"Do you think we should tell him about that, sir?" the young man asked his superior.

"Negative. There's no need for that." The older man replied. "That kind of information would just stress the boy out. And besides, he's about to get more stress than he can handle."

* * *

**Author's Notes:**

Well, it looks like the Ronster just enlisted for the ride of his life. Will he wash out, or does he actually have what it takes to be a Top Gun? One thing is for certain: When this kid gets behind the controls of a 40 million aircraft, you know something big is bound to happen. (Your tax dollars at work here, folks)

This chapter, (and possibly future chapters as well), makes minor references to my previous story, Shadows of Angels. It's probably not a big deal, but if you really want to avoid any confusion, you can go to my profile for a link to that story. Chapter Six is what most of the references will be alluding to.

As always, remember to take care, don't eat yellow snow, and watch for the next chapter.

Right off! Far in!

_Nutzkie…_


	3. Wake Up Call

**Required Legal Mumbo-Jumbo:**

For the record, I don't own KP. The same goes for any characters, settings, descriptions or catch-phrases which you may or may not happen to recognize from the show. Any and all attempts to sue me will be met with severe disappointment. (Can't get blood from a turnip, folks.) Employees and their families are ineligible. Must be 21 or older. No purchase necessary. Void where prohibited. See store for details. Prosecutors will be violated. All rights reserved. So there!

* * *

**- Chapter Three -**

There are times when human ingenuity manifests itself in chilling form: A certain nexus within the time stream when creativity and inspiration combine with the darkest impulses of human nature to create some of the most horrifically sadistic implements ever devised.

The names of such devices have been handed down through the ages, their very mention striking terror into the souls of all those who know their true nature. Names such as The Rack, The Iron Maiden and The Guillotine populate this list.

All of these instruments pale in comparison, however, to the most hideously cruel implement of torture ever to crawl forth from the darkest recesses of the human imagination: The Household Alarm Clock.

With terrifying efficiency and regularity, it greets each and every morning, dutifully interrupting mankind's one true source of natural recreation, given him by the gods so many eons ago. It cannot be appeased, reasoned with or bartered toward. Its sole purpose is to grab it hapless victim by the scruff of his or her neck, and drag the poor bloke kicking and screaming into the waking world. Its morning call is a siren of pure evil, and ultimate suffering follows in its wake.

All of this was not lost on a particular young redhead, or her desperate attempts to silence the offensive device now blaring in her ear. The tightly-wrapped cocoon of blankets suddenly sprouted a human arm, which then began feeling about the nightstand for its target. Upon locating the offending item, a single, swift judo chop silenced the offender… _permanently_.

Groaning softly, Kim Possible slowly extricated herself from her protective enclosure and dropped her bare feet to the carpeted floor. With the odd hours demanded by her mission work, she was used to waking at all hours of the day and night, but that still didn't mean that she was a morning person. Getting up in the morning, especially after getting to bed late, was often times a daunting challenge, putting her motto of "I can do anything" to the ultimate test.

She remained seated on the edge of the bed for several moments, slowly letting the stimuli of the waking world penetrate her sleep-addled senses. Half thoughts began to coalesce from the periphery of her consciousness, bringing awareness in their wake. Gradually, she began gain control of her faculties, and memories of the previous night came flooding back to her.

It was not the sort of image that one wants to wake up to.

Ron had been so dejected, she recalled, and she hadn't done anything to help him. Sure, she wasn't certain what she should have done, but uncertainty had never stopped her before. She was the sort of person who took action first, and second-guessed herself later.

"_I should have done something,"_ she silently scolded herself. _"After all, I'm the girl who could do anything, dammit!"_

"_I'd better call him,"_ she thought to herself, as she reached for the phone on her nightstand. _"Just to make sure he's okay."_

As the phone on the other end began to ring, she was haunted by memories from the plane ride home. The sight of Ron, sitting so forlornly in the back of the plane, his shoulders slumped and his head hung low, was etched into her mind. Why hadn't she done anything, she asked herself again. Ron had always been there for her, after all. Whenever she had felt down in the past, he was always the first one to lend a hand, lifting her out of her despair.

And now, when it was he who was feeling low, she hadn't even bothered to return the favor. Some best friend/girlfriend she had turned out to be.

Thoughts of failure and self-blame continued to fill her head, swirling about in an accusatory tornado; so much so that it came as a shock when she realized the phone had rang more than twenty times without an answer.

"_Strange…"_ Kim thought. _"Maybe Ron's in the shower… or maybe he's downstairs having breakfast."_ She quickly hung up and redialed, this time calling the Stoppables' family line downstairs.

"Oh, hello Mrs. Stoppable." Kim greeted as the familiar voice of Ron's mother came over the line. "Is Ron there? Wa… wait a sec! Slow down, there! What do you mean 'you thought he was with me'?"

The sense of failure that Kim had been feeling up to this point was now suddenly replaced by one of panic, and she could feel her heart accelerate inside of her chest.

"He never came home last night?" Kim gasped in disbelief. "No, no… He left my house as soon as we got back! I thought he was headed home! What's that? No, he didn't mention going anywhere else. Alright, alright… Just calm down, Mrs. S. Remember that we've got him chipped. I'll have Wade run a scan and get back to you as soon as we find him."

As she finished the conversation, Kim's voice was filled with the confidence she was so often known for. Unfortunately for her, it was all just an act: A ruse to keep the Stoppable family matriarch from panicking herself. Somehow Kim knew that this was related to the events of last night. As her very own mother had once observed, Ron _was_ prone to drama. She silently began to pray that Ron hadn't gone off and done anything drastic. If something had happened to him, and she hadn't done anything to stop it… well, that was a sin for which she could never forgive herself.

In a flash, she had grabbed the Kimmunicator from her desk and was frantically mashing the call button. It only took a few moments for the image of a pajama-clad Wade to appear on the screen.

"Are you at all familiar with the concept of sleeping in?" the bleary-eyed pre-teen said with a half-stifled yawn. "It's a long-standing weekend tradition for some people."

"Yeah, but not for me." Kim snapped back. "Listen Wade, we've got a sitch brewing here. Can you run a quick trace on Ron's chip?"

"Yeah, of course." Wade replied, his fingers already racing across his keyboards. "So where is he?"

"If I knew that, I wouldn't be asking for a trace, now would I?"

"Good point."

Kim waited anxiously for several moments while the pre-teen prodigy stared intently at the bank of monitors in front of him. The expression on the young boy's face was one that did not inspire her to confidence.

"So what's the verdict?" she finally asked, her voice dripping with impatience.

"Uhhhhh, I'm… not… sure." Came Wade's hesitant reply.

"Not sure?" Kim inquired with a raised eyebrow. "Not good enough. Your sensors can track anything, so what are you not telling me?"

"Well, it's kinda complicated." Wade replied, rubbing the back of his neck in a nervous fashion.

"Well I'm a complicated person, so spill!"

"Ah, well, I seem to be picking up some interference in Ron's signal. I can't get a lock on his position."

"Can't you compensate for that? You know, like re-modulate the frequency, or something else really technical-sounding?"

"Trust me, I'd love to, but this is targeted interference that I'm dealing with here."

"Targeted interference? Not quite up on the techno-babble, over here. Translation, please?"

"It means that somebody is jamming the signal on purpose."

"What?! Are you sure it isn't just some sort of general interference? Like maybe sunspots, or your fluorescent lighting, or something?"

"Sorry, Kim, but this signal is on a narrow bandwidth carrier wave, specifically targeted to wash out the signal from Ron's chip. Whomever's doing this, they're doing it with purpose of intent, and their intent is to keep us from finding Ron."

Now Kim's head was truly spinning. As she absent-mindedly closed the Kimmunicator's connection, she felt a wave of emotion wash over her that she had not felt for the longest time: _Fear._

There was no mistaking the implication of Wade's words: Somebody had Ron. This wasn't just a matter of him running away because he was depressed, or spending the night at Bueno Nacho, drowning his sorrows in Slurpsters and processed cheese. Someone had taken him, and they were going to great lengths to keep anyone from finding him.

Never being one to take life sitting down, it wasn't long before she was working to compose herself and come up with a plan of action. As she desperately tried to collect her thoughts, she found herself silently repeating a small prayer, over and over again…

"_Oh Ron… Please be okay."_

* * *

"I HAVE TALKED TO YOU, AND I HAVE TALKED TO YOU, AND I HAVE TALKED TO 'TILL I AM BLUE IN THE FACE, AND AS OF RIGHT NOW, I AM **DONE** TALKING TO YOU!!"

"Cool, does that mean you're done spitting on me too?"

"SHUT UP! I'M NOT DONE TALKING TO YOU!!"

"But, you just said…"

"ZIP IT!!"

"Yes sir."

For the life of him, Ron couldn't understand what he had ever done to make this towering, refrigerator-shaped gentleman so upset with him. It seemed that his very existence, which he was deeply apologetic for, was nothing but a constant source of aggravation for this fatigue-wearing hulk of a man. He didn't understand the source of this anger, just as he didn't understand the purpose of the nearly constant drills, calisthenics and verbal abuse that he had been assured he would soon be receiving.

There was one thing he did understand, however: He understood why everyone else around him called this "Hell Week."

As the sergeant before him continued his verbal assault, Ron's mind wandered back to the speech he and the other recruits had been given upon their arrival at the unknown location they now called home. After being arranged into neat ranks, the same officer who now stood before him had delivered a rather stirring monologue…

"_In the beginning, gentlemen, was God… All else was darkness. And so God created the heavens and the earth, and he filled each of these with a variety of curious creatures._

_The smelly, slimy creatures of the sea, He called 'Sailors,' and He dressed them accordingly._

_The flighty creatures of the air, He called pilots, and to them He gave uniforms that were ruffled and foul._

_The lowly creatures of the land were called soldiers, and to them He gave covers to short, trousers too long, and pockets with which to warm their hands._

…_And on the seventh day, God rested from his labors._

…_And on the eighth day, at exactly oh-six-hundred hours, God looked down upon that which he had created, and He was not happy! Do you hear me maggots? GOD WAS NOT HAPPY!!_

_And so He created a creature in His own image: A divine creature that would be of the air, the land, and the sea._

…_And He called this creature a Thunder Eagle. And to him He gave a practical uniform that you can fight in; as well as evening and dress uniforms, so that he might score with the ladies on Saturday nights, and impress the hell out of EVERYBODY!_

_And so, once again, God rested. But do you think He was happy? He most certainly was NOT happy!_

_He was not happy, gentlemen, because in the course of his labors, he had overlooked one detail: He did not have an Eagle's uniform._

_He consoled himself, however, with the knowledge that not everyone could be a Thunder Eagle._

…_Which brings me to the point of this message, because if you will take notice, ladies, I AM a Thunder Eagle, and that puts me one step above God._

_Now, the sooner you maggots accept that fact… the sooner we can all start to get along just fine."_

Ron shuddered as he recalled how the sergeant had completed this last sentence with an almost sinister smile spreading across his face.

"I've really got to hand it to this guy, Rufus," Ron said, looking down at the small creature peering up from his pocket. "I always thought Barkin was ornery, but dang… when this guy talks, E. F. Hutton listens."

"Hurk, yeah… Blah blah blah." The tiny creature squeaked in agreement.

Ron dejectedly slumped his shoulders forward. This sitch was so not boding well at the moment.

"YOU STAY AT ATTENTION, MAGGOT!! I DIDN'T SAY 'AT EASE'!!"

With this, Ron's shoulders and chin snapped back upright as if they were spring loaded. If nothing else, one had to admit that this experience was certainly improving his posture, and maybe even his reflexes.

Posture and response times, however, were the farthest things from his mind right now. As he stood there in the oppressive sun, with his eyes forward and his spine ramrod straight, he mentally took stock of the situation, and a worrisome thought slowly crept into his head…

"Ohhhh man… What have I gotten myself into."

* * *

Kim was already dressed in her mission clothes and just getting the last of her gear in order when the distinctive four-tone chime of the Kimmunicator grabbed her attention.

"Sitch me, Wade." She demanded, almost before she had picked-up the aquamarine device.

"Thought you should know; there's been a new development on the sidekick front."

"Let's have it, then." Kim replied flatly, "And try to remember from now on, Ron's my partner, not my sidekick."

"Right, sorry… Well, it turns out that Ron's parents just got an e-mail about him."

"He sent them an e-mail?" Kim asked excitedly. "Does he say if he's all right?"

"Actually, the message wasn't from him, Kim." Wade replied in a matter-of-fact tone.

"Of course it wasn't… That would be too easy." Kim retorted, dryly. "So who was it from?"

"Someone claiming to be running a wilderness relaxation retreat. They didn't give a location, but they said that he's staying there to find himself and re-evaluate his priorities. They were pretty clear about maintaining his privacy and not wanting anyone to come looking for him."

Kim listened to Wade intently, her nose wrinkling up into a scowl that could have stripped the smile off a clown's face.

"Sorry Wade," she finally replied, "but that's got to be the biggest bag of bull biscuits I've ever heard."

"What tipped you off?" Wade asked with a knowing smirk.

"Well, let's see now…" Kim replied in a tone that simply dripped sarcasm. "First off, why would a wilderness retreat be jamming his tracking signal; secondly, Ron's not exactly a sit-around-and-relax type of person."

"I'll say," Wade broke in. "Remember that time he drank your triple espresso by accident? The fire department had to pry him off the roof with a crowbar."

"Finally," Kim continued, "This place sounds a lot like a camp, and we both know for a fact that Ron would never go anywhere near a place that even remotely resembles a camp; at least not willingly. Wannaweep still casts a pretty long shadow for him."

"Agreed." Wade replied, concurring with Kim's line of reasoning. "The message just screams 'Tripple-F'."

"Come again?"

"Full-fleged-fake."

"Okay, you need to stop talking to Monique so much. Acronyms are so not your thing."

"Yeeeeeahhhh... Getting back to business, now. So what's your plan of attack?"

"First of all," Kim responded, her tone and expression suddenly turning dead serious, "I need you to get me a ride to England."

"Easy enough to do." Wade said as he began to work his own brand of magic across his keyboards. "Got a specific location in mind?"

"Monkey Fist's castle." Kim replied succinctly.

"You think Monkey Fist has Ron?"

"Well they are arch foes. He seems like the most likely candidate."

"Good point." Wade conceded. "Your ride should be there in ten."

"Thanks Wade. As always, you continue to rock!"

"Just doing that voodoo that I do." He replied with a self-satisfied smile. "And don't worry, Kim. We'll find him." He added with a reassuring nod of his head.

"Yeah, I know." Kim sighed, glancing forlornly toward the picture window over her desk… "I have to know."

* * *

**Author's Notes:**

Well, Ron certainly seems to have gotten himself into quite a pickle. Even now, I wonder if he truly appreciates just how deep a sitch he's into.

Kim, on the other hand, is whipping herself into a tizzy, like an over-protective mother hen. Isn't she just the cutest thing when she's worried about her Ronnie? Let's just hope everyone else around her can handle her when she's like this.

Coming up in the next chapter, Kim's Kimness comes out in full-force as she starts her search for her missing boyfriend, and Ron officially starts his training to hopefully become a Top Gun. What could possibly go wrong? Do you really need to ask that question? Why are there locks on the doors at the Quickie-Mart when they're open 24/7? Stay tuned to find out!

See you all in the next chapter!

_Nutzkie…_


	4. Fight or Flight

Required Legal Mumbo-Jumbo:

**Required Legal Mumbo-Jumbo:**

For the record, I don't own KP. The same goes for any characters, settings, descriptions or catch-phrases which you may or may not happen to recognize from the show. Any and all attempts to sue me will be met with severe disappointment. (Can't get blood from a turnip, folks.) Employees and their families are ineligible. Must be 21 or older. No purchase necessary. Void where prohibited. See store for details. Prosecutors will be violated. All rights reserved. So there!

* * *

**- Chapter Four -**

The radiating glow of the hearth illuminated the large chamber, casting a surreal pattern of shadow and subdued light across the paintings and tapestries that lined its walls. Near the fire, a shadowy figure relaxed within the comfortable confines of a large, over-stuffed chair. Dark brown eyes studied the flames intently, as if trying to divine some ultimate, universal truth from their random, enigmatic dance.

For Lord Montgomery Fisk, this was a typical evening. Alone in his ancestral manor, he was free to meditate, seeking his own center, and to contemplate his life-long quest to become the ultimate monkey master. It was a quest which he had to admit, had so far been somewhat less than successful. However, this fact did nothing to deter his ambitions in the matter. As more than one wise man had observed in the past, nothing worth having has ever come easy.

Taking a gentle sip of tea, he was soon lost in his own thoughts once more, not noticing the shadowy figure now lurking in the rafters above him. Even as a rope dropped from above, and the figure slowly descended behind him, he took no notice. It was no surprise then, when the English nobleman nearly jumped out of his skin at the sudden appearance of a voice less than a meter behind him.

"Game over, Fist!"

Leaping from the chair with all the speed and agility that his genetic modifications afforded him, he landed before the fireplace in a fighting crouch, ready to confront this unexpected houseguest.

"Kim Possible…" he growled. "Perhaps I should introduce you to a clever little device called a 'doorbell?'"

"Can it, banana breath!" Kim shot back, her tone brokering no argument. "What have you done with Ron?"

"The buffoon?" Fisk asked incredulously. "What on earth would I possibly want with him?"

"Don't call him a buffoon!" Kim shouted, angrily. "And you tell me what you want with him. You're the one who grabbed him."

"I did no such thing!" the mad monkey-man shouted back. "Who ever told you such a vicious lie?"

"Nobody had to tell me anything." Kim replied. "Ron's disappeared, and I did the math. In case you hadn't noticed, you do have a history together."

"Hmph!" Fisk snorted in contempt. "Be that as it may, I still have no idea what you're talking about. Now, if you don't mind, I'd much rather prefer switching the subject from history, back to math."

With a snap of his fingers, a dozen monkey ninjas dropped down from the rafters, surrounding Kim where she stood. Taking two steps backward, she dropped into a defensive stance and surveyed the situation. It was clear she was about to have a fight on her hands.

"Now then, let us see how these numbers add up for you." Fisk stated with an evil grin. "Monkey ninjas, _attack!_"

In unison, the simian minions charged, forcing Kim to defend herself against a flurry of fur. She dodged and blocked several punches and kicks, dispatching two of her attackers with a well-placed roundhouse kick of her own. One monkey leapt at her from the fireplace mantle, but she managed to duck underneath the aerial attack. As the assailant passed harmlessly over her, she reached up and grabbed its tail, swinging it around like a furry flail and launching it into a nearby wall, taking three of its comrades down in the process.

As the remaining members of the group pressed their attack, Kim retreated, flipping backwards onto the mantle. As her assailants pursued her, she grabbed the edge of the great tapestry that hung over the fireplace and leapt down, ensnaring the remainder of the attackers in yards and yards of yards and yards.

Seeing his minions defeated so easily was nothing new for the English lord. He had to admit on occasion that, over the years, they had proven to be utter disappointments. He was used to doing things himself.

Silently making his way across the room toward the still pre-occupied redhead, he had just closed to within striking distance when Kim suddenly spun around, connecting with an open-palm strike to his chest. Reeling from the well-placed blow, Fisk stumbled backward, and quickly found himself pinned to the wall, staring straight into a pair of emerald-green eyes that burned with an intensity of rage the likes of which he had never seen before. He shuddered slightly under the intense glare.

"Last chance…" Kim growled, fiercely. "What have you done with Ron? I know you have him!"

"Been jumping to many conclusions, lately?" Fisk asked, mockingly. "I thought you got enough exercise just pushing you luck?"

Any further retorts were cut off by a slender hand suddenly clamping around his throat with vice-like intensity.

"Word of advice: Back-talk isn't your best option right now." Kim snarled. "Once again, now… Where is he?"

"Look," Fisk declared, "obviously you're someone who prefers physical violence to diplomacy, so I will say this veeeerrrrry slooooowwwwwly: I… don't… know… where… your… friend… is. I don't have him, I don't know who _does_ have him, and to be perfectly frank, I don't particularly care about any of it!"

Kim looked straight into the eyes of the lunatic lord. There was contempt in those eyes; she could see that much clearly. However, there was something else in those soulless eyes as well: _Honesty._

Kim sighed heavily and released her grasp on Fisk. It was obvious he was telling the truth. Wherever Ron was, he wasn't here.

Turning to leave, she looked back over her shoulder and shot a menacing glance toward Fisk, who had by now managed to regain his feet and was gingerly masaging his throat.

"I believe you for now, Monty," she growled, "but if I find out that you're lying to me, then there won't be a jungle in the world deep enough for you to hide in."

"Of that, Miss Possible," the nobleman replied, "I have no doubt."

* * *

Well, at least he was finally airborne.

After enduring one week of training, Ron was beginning to wonder if he would ever get to see the inside of an actual airplane. To say he had found this disappointing would be an understatement on the same level as saying that M. C. Hammer has a slight cash-flow problem.

To make matters worse, the training regimen had been beyond grueling. Reveille was at 6:00 sharp each morning, with everyone falling in for a back-breaking hour of calisthenics and strength training, and all of this before any kind of breakfast was served.

After an all-too-quick meal was mercifully served, it was off to the classroom for instruction in basic in-flight maneuvering and tactics, followed by a course in techniques for identifying various other aircraft while in the air.

After an even quicker lunch, it was off to the simulator, which Ron had to admit was pretty cool. Even the best games on his home computer couldn't compare to the full-motion, total-emersion environment presented by this multi-million dollar piece of equipment. The experience was so realistic that he had actually gotten airsick at one point. Needless to say, this did nothing to endear him to the janitor that week.

To finish the day off, there was another two hours of classroom instruction, written tests and pop quizzes, and a study session back at the barracks to cap off the day, just before the mandatory lights out.

Then, he had to get up the next morning and do it all again.

Now, after enduring this monotony for a week, he was finally in the air. Sitting in the front seat of the T-38 Talon that he had been assigned to, he could feel the exhilaration of commanding 2,900 pounds of thrust, and it sent a surge of adrenalin coursing through his veins. The super-sonic trainer was both fast and agile, and it sent shivers down his spine. Although he had been extremely nervous at first, the instructor in the seat behind him was continually reminding him that he had backup, and after nearly a half-hour of handling this nimble bird, Ron was finally starting to become comfortable with the controls, and was actually finding it enjoyable.

"Okay, son," his instructor said over the in-cockpit intercom, "we're gonna need to come left rudder about fifteen degrees here."

"Oh, right... Yessir!" Ron quickly replied. After a moment's pause, he spoke out again, this time in a much more meekly manner.

"Uhhh... What's a rudder, again?"

"Those pedals down on the floor." the instructor groaned. The young man seated in front of him certainly seemed to have a talent for the trade, but sometimes he could just be such a dunce about things.

_"He might become one of the best pilots in the whole darn organization,"_ the instructor thought to himself, _"If he can just survive long enough to graduate."_

* * *

"I'm on the move, Wade. Guide me in."

"Copy that... I've got a lock on your position. There should be a tunnel branching off to your right in about twenty feet. Take it"

"Roger that. Rockin' as usual."

As Kim made her way through the darkened passage, she had to be extra careful. The illumination provided by the Kimmunicator wasn't much for penetrating this kind of darkness, and there were other issues as well.

Issues like the smell.

Being a sewer tunnel, the confined space was a rainbow of unpleasant aromas, and Kim found herself purposefully breathing through her mouth to avoid the olfactory bombardment she was now being confronted with.

Finding the branch tunnel right where Wade said it would be, she made her turn and continued forward. After several more yards, a faint light began to emerge from the inky blackness. Carefully, she turned off the Kimmunicator and crept forward slowly, using all of the stealth she could muster. It had taken Wade an entire week to track down this latest target, and she wasn't going to blow this opportunity because of carelessness.

It may have taken several minutes to cover the short distance, but she soon found herself at the tunnel exit, staring into a large, underground chamber.

The chamber appeared to be some sort of maintenance room; perhaps a staging area of sorts for equipment needed to keep the system flowing as the engineers who designed it had intended. There was some overhead lighting, and large stacks of equipment scattered throughout the space. What caught Kim's attention most of all, however, was the skulking figure near the far side of the room. With his back turned to the teen heroine, he was blissfully unaware of her approach.

"And so we've narrowed it down to three compounds." He cackled, looking over an odd assortment of beakers and test tubes that were spread out across the table before him. "One of these samples will enhance my mutanigenic abilities enough to make me unstoppable!"

"Nice spread you've got there, fish face." Kim chided, startling the creature before her. "I didn't realize that the sewers had a happy hour."

"Well, well… If it isn't the squeeb's new girlfriend." The creature replied. You're a little out of your element down here, aren't you?"

"Yeah, but you know me, Gill. I'm all about taking the scenic route." Kim shot back. "So, I take it we're in the market for an upgrade?"

"I prefer to think of it more as accessorizing, Miss Possible. It's a concept I'm sure you're familiar with."

"True, but apparently somebody didn't get the memo. The slimy mutant look is _so_ last season."

"As opposed to that purple pull-over you're wearing, you mean?"

"Hey, this look is a total classic! And you should be talking, mister 'Last-Week's-Catch-of-the-Day'."

"Ohhhhh, you're gonna pay for that one, sweetie."

With that retort, the two figures started to slowly circle one another like a pair of rival alley cats, each sizing up their opponent, looking for any weakness or opportunity that may present itself, waiting for the moment to strike.

In a flash, Gill's hand shot out from his side, releasing a stream of foul-smelling goop. Kim dove to her right, barely dodging the surprise attack. Landing on her feet, she quickly dodged and rolled again, avoiding another shot in the process.

Kim's heart began to race as she bobbed and weaved her way through Gill's repeated slime-attacks. Her two previous experiences with the aquatic mutant had taught her the consequences of contact with this sludge, and she most definitely did not want to risk the third time being a charm for Ron's arch-nemesis. As Gill belched out a rapid-fire burst, she managed to duck behind some packing crates that had been stacked along the far side of the room.

"You might as well come out and face the music, Princess!" Gill shouted. "You can't hide from me forever."

"Hey, only Shego calls me that!" Kim exclaimed, quickly maneuvering through the shadows, using the crates for cover. Without any long-range weapons at her disposal, she needed to get in close in order to neutralize Gill. But with the center of the room being a large, open space, she couldn't close the range without exposing herself to his line of fire. She had to find a way to either neutralize his attack, or cover herself while she advanced onto his position.

Taking a quick stock of the sitch, Kim scanned the surrounding area. There were the packing crates, an assortment of toolboxes, several piles of miscellaneous equipment, and what appeared to be some sort of an air compressor. Several ideas came to her mind, but her roving gaze stopped when she spied one particular section of "U"-shaped pipe.

A sly smile slowly spread across her face. She knew exactly what she was going to do.

"Come out, come out, wherever you are." Gill sing-songed, slowly stalking the center of the room.

"Over here, bait breath!" Kim shouted as she commando-rolled out from behind the crates.

In a single, fluid motion, Gill spun around and launched a burst of sludge in Kim's direction, not even bothering to respond to her most recent insult. For Kim, it was exactly the reaction she had been hoping for.

In the blink of an eye, she whipped the pipe section out from behind her back, holding it with both hands so that the open ends pointed directly back at Gill. The sludge wad was almost instantly engulfed by one end of the tube, and just as quickly, re-emerged from the other end, this time heading in the opposite direction.

Yellow eyes grew wide as Gill saw his own signature attack being turned against him. Before he could even react, he was pinned to the wall, stuck fast by his own mutant goo.

"_Point, game, set and match!"_ she thought to herself as she casually tossed the pipe aside and approached Gill's struggling form. She smiled broadly as she came to stand in front of her defeated enemy.

"Well then, now that we've exchanged salutations, let's get down to business." She said, haughtily. "Where's Ron?"

"How the heck should I know where the squeeb is?" came Gill's terse reply. "What do I look like, his babysitter? _…Gaaaahhhhh!_"

Kim strengthened the grip she had just taken on the waddle that hung down below Gill's throat. She had always suspected that this was a sensitive part of the mutant's anatomy, and she now resolved to use it to her full advantage.

"Maybe we need to set some ground rules first? The first rule is that I ask the questions here. Got that?"

Gill simply nodded is agreement. It was obvious that the redhead was in no mood to be trifled with.

"Now, let's try this again. Where's Ron, you smelly sack of sushi?"

"I don't know. And whatever makes you think I would know? _…Gurk!_"

"What did I just say about you asking questions?" Kim asked with a growing level of annoyance evident in her voice. "Last chance, now. Where's is he?"

"I'm telling you that I don't know!" Gill cried out almost pleadingly. "My plans right now don't involve him, and my evil plate is way too full for me to be running off pursuing childhood grudges!"

"Well, let me put it this way, then… Who do you think _does_ have him?"

"Search me. I didn't even know he was missing. Look, I'm sorry Possible, I'd love to help, but I'm just as much in the dark about this as you are."

Kim stared the evil mutant up and down intensely, trying to read his intentions and frame of mind. Slowly, his mannerisms and tone began to tell the story, and it was a story that she was loathe to hear: Gill was telling the truth.

Kim's shoulders drooped and she heaved a heavy sigh. It was another dead end, and once again she found herself back at square one. She turned dejectedly away and began to leave when Gill called out from behind her.

"Aren't you forgetting something?

"Such as?"

"Uhhh, hello… Stuck to a wall, here."

"So what of it? The look suits you."

"Ummmmm…"

"Don't worry, I'm not that cruel. A Global Justice haz-mat crew will be by in an hour to arrest you."

"Gee, thanks."

"_Meh…_ Call me generous."

And with that, Kim silently disappeared back into the shadows from which she had come.

* * *

**Author's Notes:**

Well, Ron's finally in the air, but his ordeal is still far from over. Can a life-long slacker such as himself ever really hope to complete such a grueling course? It will certainly be interesting to find out.

And of course we have Kim, knocking down the villains' doors one at a time. You really didn't think she'd take a sitch like this lying down, did you? Let's just hope she doesn't wind up hurting someone before this is over.

The T-38 Talon is a two-seat, twin-engine supersonic trainer aircraft currently in use by the United States Air Force and several of her NATO allies. The National Aeronautics and Space Administration (NASA) also finds use for the T-38 as a chase plane when testing advanced experimental prototypes, and when landing the space shuttle.

Stay tuned for our next episode, when Ron solos, and Kim's anxiety reaches a fever pitch.

As always,

_Nutzkie…_


	5. Going Solo

**Required Legal Mumbo-Jumbo:**

For the record, I don't own KP. The same goes for any characters, settings, descriptions or catch-phrases which you may or may not happen to recognize from the show. Any and all attempts to sue me will be met with severe disappointment. (Can't get blood from a turnip, folks.) Employees and their families are ineligible. Must be 21 or older. No purchase necessary. Void where prohibited. See store for details. Prosecutors will be violated. All rights reserved. So there!

* * *

**- Chapter Five -**

It has been said on many occasions that fear is a good thing: It let's you know that you're still alive.

If this was true, then Ron Stoppable had never been more alive in his life.

Sitting on the tarmac, strapped into the cockpit, he felt as though he had just eaten a butterfly burrito; grande sized. He was about to take-off on his first solo flight, and the knowledge that he wouldn't be flying with back-up this time weighed heavily on his mind. What if he screwed-up? What if he pushed the wrong button? What if there was a malfunction of some sort? There would be no instructor in the seat behind him to bail him out. No one more experienced than him to save his sorry butt.

He was startled out of these thoughts when a member of the ground crew suddenly appeared along side the cockpit and started checking his harness. Making sure that everything within the confined space was secure, the man noticed the pale expression on Ron's face.

"Nervous?" he asked with genuine concern.

"A little." Ron squeaked.

"First time?" the crewman inquired.

"Nah… I've been nervous lots of times."

The crewman simply raised a suspicious eyebrow before continuing on with his assigned duties. After several years in the military, he had learned that sometimes it's just best not to ask.

As the Plexiglas canopy slid closed around him, Ron tried to calm himself by going over his pre-flight checklist, (for the twenty-sixth time), and by reviewing what he knew about his assigned aircraft this day.

The F-86 Saber was the definition of simplicity. Little more than a stovepipe with wings and a tail, the single-engine fighter was practically older than his parents. First flown during the Korean War, it was stable and forgiving to fly, and capable of breaking the sound barrier in a dive. Rugged and maneuverable, it had made a name for itself hunting Russian-built Migs over the Korean Peninsula, and had become a living legend in the process.

Being an older airframe, however, also meant that the plane was expendable. This made it an ideal choice for a solo trainer, whose inexperienced pilots had a higher incidence of mishap than others. This also brought Ron's butterflies back with a vengeance.

One thing was for certain, however. No matter what the outcome of this flight, a great number of pilots had cut their proverbial teeth in this plane. He wasn't the first, and he certainly wouldn't be the last.

As the ground controller gave permission to taxi, Ron eased his plane off of the tarmac and onto the main runway, his stomach still turning cartwheels inside of him. There was no turning back now… This was "go-time."

"Mad Dog One, you are clear for take-off." The controller's voice crackled over the radio. "Good luck and Godspeed!"

Taking a deep breath, Ron nudged the throttle forward and released his brakes, a single thought running through his mind…

"_If I live through this, I'll never complain about flying commercial again."_

* * *

_"If at first you don't succeed, blah... blah... blah..."_

As true as it may be, there was just something about that particular phrase that could grate on a person's nerves after a while.

For a certain teenage heroine, the sitch was certainly scoring high on the grating scale right now. After two weeks and as many search attempts, she was still no closer to finding Ron. Neither Gill nor Monkey Fist had been involved with his sudden disappearance, and to spite his mad computer skills, Wade had found no luck in hacking past the scrambling signal that was interfering with Ron's chip. It seemed as if some great void had opened up in the earth and swallowed him whole, leaving no trace of him behind.

But if you thought having nothing to go on was going to stop _the_ Kim Possible... well, then you obviously don't read the paper very often.

Kim knew that there were other leads to track down. Through their mission work over the years, Ron had developed a small stable of his very own arch foes, (something which he was actually rather flattered by), and that didn't take into account her own enemies, some of whom may just be low enough to use him as a means of getting to her. She shuddered involuntarily at this thought, terrified by the idea that Ron may have been hurt because of her decision to go into the world-saving business.

She couldn't allow herself to dwell on such things, however: Not when there were other avenues to investigate. She needed to keep up her search. Ron was counting on her.

This was how she had come to find herself in her current sitch: skulking through the shadows of yet another lair, searching for yet another villain who may have the information she was looking for.

The sudden appearance of voices caused her to momentarily freeze, taking careful note of her surroundings. Once she was certain that she hadn't been discovered, she stealthily crept forward, moving ever so slowly toward the source of the conversation. She moved from a narrow hallway into a large room, taking cover behind some conveniently-placed boxes of computer components. Being ever-so-careful as to not give her position away, she peered around the corner to observe her target du jour.

"Bear witness my coefficients, to my unrivaled mathematical brilliance!" the gaudily-clad figure raved. "At last, final mathematical proof that time actually _is_ money!"

"Uhhh... Isn't that, like… just an expression?" one of his equally dorky-looking assistants questioned.

The Mathter turned to glare at the source of this neanderthalian challenge to his abilities.

"Oh yes... And this insight comes to us direct from the intellectual giant who deduced that 'pi are _round!'_" the Mathter snarled, his expression wrought with contempt. Good help was hard to find, he had discovered, and the idiots he felt he was forced to work with were sometimes enough to make his blood boil.

"In any case," the Mathter continued, "we shall now move on to our next equation. This time, we will attempt to prove that the trip there _is_, in fact, longer than the trip back."

"Uhhhh... The trip where?" the same dim-witted assistant inquired.

The Mathter was about to respond with another belittling outburst, but was interrupted before even beginning.

"I think he means the trip to prison." an all-too-familiar voice called out from the far side of the room.

"Sooooooo... Kim Possible, I presume." the Mathter sneered, turning to face the red-headed intruder. "Our paths have crossed once again, it would seem."

"With the operative word being 'cross.'" Kim quipped. "Whatever mathematical mayhem you're up to, it ends now."

"Whatever do you mean?" the Mathter asked innocently. "All we're doing is creating complex mathematical equations that explore the great mysteries of life."

"Pffft... As _if!_" Kim shot back dismissively. "Just look at this one over here." She walked over to a nearby portable chalkboard that was virtually covered with complex calculations and figures. "This thing just screams 'Doomsday Plot.'"

"Actually, Miss Possible, that's a mathematical expression of the meaning of the universe."

"Really? But... but it looks like the whole thing just equals zero."

"Ugh! Don't even remind me. Major disappointment with that one."

Kim turned around, taking a long look at the entire room. For all appearances, the Mathter seemed to be telling the truth. There was nothing that could be identified as a weapon, and none of the countless equations that could bee seen throughout the space looked to be in any way threatening: Intimidating, perhaps, but not threatening.

"Well, you've gotta be up to _something_ no-good-ish." She glowered.

"I can assure you ma'am, that all of our current expressions are perfectly legitimate." The Mathter stated haughtily, thrusting his nose into the air. "That is, unless you wish to arrest us for possessing weapons of math instruction."

"Math instruction?" Kim raised an eyebrow at the expression. "Gee, how long have you been waiting to pull _that_ one out?"

"Longer than you'd think." The garish villain replied with a groan. "Topical puns are just _so_ situational."

There was a long pause as Kim carefully considered the sitch.

"So, that's really all you're doing here? Answering questions?" she finally asked.

"'Fraid so." the Mathter replied.

"Good!" Kim counter-replied. "Because I've got a few questions of my own."

In the flash of an instant, Kim had the Mathter by the over-sized "M" that adorned the top of his head. A quick twist of her arms then laid out the mathematical miscreant, flat on his back. Stunned by the swiftness of Kim's attack, he was unable to move before he found himself pinned to the floor by the sole of a size seven Club Banana boot.

"Tell your coefficients to back off, math freak, or else I'm gonna subtract two from the lower half of your equation, if you get my drift!" Kim growled, glaring down at her helpless opponent. Her expression told him that the teen heroine meant every word that she had just spoken.

The stricken super-villain quickly waved off his advancing assistants before smiling meekly at the fuming redhead now towering over him.

"So what did you want to know?" he asked, his voice cracking with apprehension.

"The current location of my boyfriend will do for starters, please and thank you."

"Ooooh, that's a toughie... It may take me a while to come up with a formula for that one, but if I can extrapolate the variables for…"

Any further reply was cut off by a sudden increase in pressure from Kim's boot.

"Yeah, I'm kind in a hurry here, so I'll need my answers now, please and thank-you." Kim was obviously in no mood to beat around the bush.

"If I had some time," the Mathter replied a little more sternly, "I could work up some probabilities on where he might be... but you're acting like I should have direct knowledge of some sort."

"Well, don't you?"

"For that, I _do_ have a direct answer, and that answer is 'no.'" The Mathter replied flatly. "And just what in the name of Joseph Lagrange's lobes makes you think that I would know anything about your missing friend?"

"Boyfriend!"

"Whatever."

"Well, he _is_ your arch foe after all."

"Arch foe? Ha! Don't make me split my fractions. Just because I have one run-in with that meddling variable of a boy doesn't mean he's my arch foe. I don't even know his _name,_ for Sizlard's sake!"

"It's Ron," Kim said in a suddenly subdued tone. "And you're not the only one who never remembers."

Then, without another word, Kim turned around and silently walked away. A hasty retreat was best, she concluded, as she most definitely did not want to let the villains see her cry. It had been another dead end, and her heart was breaking because of it.

_"How much longer can this go on?"_ she asked herself as she walked. _"How many more blind alleys will I have to go down?"_

She didn't know the answers to these questions, but she did know one thing: Her search was a long way from over. No matter how long it took, no matter how far she had to travel, no matter how many lairs she had to infiltrate, she would find him. She would find Ron, she would gaze into his chocolate-brown eyes, she would settle into the comfort of his warm embrace, and they would be together once again. She would accept nothing less.

* * *

Like a jungle panther, he stalked his prey by night. The darkness was his friend… his ally… his constant companion. He wore the darkness like a cloak, concealing his every intent and maneuver from his enemies until the moment their fate was irrevocably sealed.

He could observe his targets while they slept, or stumbled about aimlessly in the dark, blissfully unaware of the danger that surrounded them. From a great distance, he could strike with precision and impunity, bringing death and destruction to those unlucky few who would never even have the satisfaction of knowing what had hit them.

There was no doubt about it: Night vision hurricane _rocked!_

Of course laser-guided weapons and GPS navigation were pretty cool, too.

The AH-64/D Apache Longbow helicopter was a marvel of modern technology, and it was also the most bon-diggity toy that Ron Stoppable had ever received.

It was also, however, one of the most expensive as well, and he found himself constantly issuing self-memos regarding the need to be careful. After all, if he wound-up breaking the darn thing, he seriously doubted his ability to come up with the 30 million that he'd need to cover the cost of the high-tech whirly-bird.

Anxiety, however, in no way precluded his having some fun with this new plaything. After all, there were just so many features for an inquiring and slightly skittish mind to explore, and an exciting new environment to explore them in.

Not quite a week before, he had been transferred from the airbase in Colorado where he had started his training, to a G.J. airfield in the southern California desert, just a short hop away from Edwards Air Force Base and its world-famous Rogers Dry Lake landing strip.

Now, the dry riverbeds and arroyos of the arid landscape were his playground. With literally thousands of acres of desert at his disposal, he could stalk across the open lands, hunting and attacking targets at will, quickly learning the tactics of the trade, and discovering just what a thrill rotary-winged aircraft could be.

Now, concealed by the cloak of darkness, he eased his way up along a mountain ridge, edging ever closer to the summit, until the radar blister perched atop his main rotor barely cleared the top. A quick check of one of the two digital touch screens on his control panel told him exactly what he wanted to see. The valley below was crawling with armored vehicles: Stationary targets placed in the desert for the purpose of this night's exercise.

Ducking back below the ridge to conceal his position, Ron began to slide laterally along the desert floor, just a scant twenty feet above the ground. The terrain here was his friend, allowing him to move about from position to position without exposing himself to enemy fire. Bobbing and weaving through shallow canyons and around rock outcroppings, he soon found himself within range of his target. Activating his weapons systems, he switched on his FLIR unit, and a ghostly black-and-white image of the landscape before him suddenly winked to life on the heads-up display panel, mounted in the windshield, just above the digital screens.

Selecting one of the eight AGM-114 Hellfire missiles he was equipped with that night, he suddenly popped up above the ridge like a cork shooting to the surface of a swimming pool. With a quick adjustment to the targeting computer, he locked onto the nearest vehicle and fired, the rocket wash from the missile briefly illuminating the inside of the cockpit like high noon.

Moments later, the missile found its mark, its 20-pound warhead detonating on impact, and the hapless tank vanished into a cloud of flaming debris. Ron never saw the product of his labor, however, as he had already ducked back behind the ridge, and was maneuvering to a new location. It was never a good idea to spend too much time in one spot, he had been taught, as it allowed the enemy to target your position.

Advancing to within gun range, he now selected the M-230 as his primary weapon. This was a chain-fed 30-millimeter cannon, carried on a swivel-mount slung below the belly of the craft. Firing a combination of high explosive and armor-piercing ammunition, it gave a whole new meaning to the phrase "reach out and touch someone."

The best part of the M-230, however, wasn't the gun itself, but rather how it was aimed. By wearing a special helmet, Ron could draw a bead onto a target simply by turning his head. A small, fold-down monocle attached to the helmet provided a set of crosshairs, and the ship's onboard ballistic computer would automatically compensate for variables such as range, bullet drop, windage, and the motions of the helicopter itself. All he had to do was look at the target, and pull the trigger. Enemy ground targets didn't stand a chance.

Such was the case for the ex-Soviet tank now sitting on the crest of a nearby sand dune. As the Apache once again popped-up from the shelter of a shallow bluff, the stillness of the desert night was shattered by the staccato report of the gun, and the unfortunate tank came alive with a series of explosions as the shells tore through its steel skin like ice picks through paper. It was over in less than two seconds.

"Good work, Mad Dog!" came the voice of flight control over the radio. "It's obvious you know the material."

"Roger that, control." Came Ron's jovial reply. "Guess the Ron-Man is a natural-born killer."

"Well don't throw your arm out patting yourself on the back there, Corporal." Came the terse reply. "Stationary targets are one thing, but in actual combat, things tend to be moving around a lot more."

"Awwww, man! Why you gotta be harshing my chill like that, yo?"

"We're officers… It's what we do."

"Figures."

"Anyway, your training objectives have been completed for tonight, so you are authorized RTB." The controller informed him. "Get back here and get some sack time. Reveille comes pretty early."

"You don't have to tell me, dude. I live it every morning."

"Don't we all, Mad Dog… Don't we all…"

"Roger that, my friend… Mad Dog out."

And with that, the dark green chopper turned toward home.

* * *

With her head hung low, Kim's face was almost completely obscured by auburn locks as she exited the Mathter's lair. This had been the last of Ron's foes on her list, and now that it hadn't panned out, she was forced with confronting the list of her own enemies. She shuddered at the thought, as she had accumulated a long list of arch foes over the years, and the prospect of having to go through the entire batch was daunting to say the least.

Her funk was abruptly broken by the familiar four-tone call of the Kimmunicator.

"Go, Wade." Kim sighed, activating the small device.

"Oh… Didn't go so well, I take it?"

"That obvious, huh?"

"Let's just say I've seen you be more enthusiastic."

"Yeah, probably…" Kim lamented. "So what's the sitch?"

"You feel up for a mission?"

"Uhhh, I've kinda got a lot on my plate right now, Wade." Kim replied. She really wanted to concentrate on her search at the moment, and wasn't looking forward to any distractions.

"I know," Wade continued, "but it'll take me a while to plot out our next step, and this looks like it should be a quick one."

"Okay, sitch me."

"Motor Ed is running wild in the Mojave Desert. G.J. thinks he's up to something."

"Natch. At least ol' squirrel-head is usually an easy collar. Where are we on the ride front?"

"On it's way."

"All right, then… Thanks Wade. Kim out."

As the Kimmunicator's screen went dark once again, Kim heaved another sigh. At least this mission would get her mind onto something else for a little while, and a little distraction was probably a good thing for her right about now, she concluded. She had been obsessing, and she knew it.

But what else could she do, really? The most important person in her life was missing, and it seemed at times that she was the only one in the world who was concerned. She had to obsess: It was her nature, after all. And when she obsessed, she got results.

Once this mission was over, her search would go on, and it would continue on until she got the results she was looking for.

* * *

**Author's Notes:**

_F-86 Saber:_ Built by North American Aviation, (builders of the legendary P-51 Mustang), the Saber began life as a rather innocuous design that got a major boost when North American's engineers were presented with research data captured from German scientists near the end of the Second World War. The captured files detailed German wind tunnel tests involving various swept-wing configurations, and this data was quickly incorporated into the Saber's design. The result was a high-speed, highly-stable, highly-agile jet fighter. First deployed by the United States Air Force starting in 1949, Sabers were still in front-line service with the Portuguese Air Force, (Forca Aerea Portuguesa), as recently as 1980.

_Pie are round:_ For those readers who would be regarded as mathematically declined, (I myself flunked algebra three times in college), the hapless coefficient's remark is a reference to the time-honored formula of "pi 'r' squared," where multiplying the radius of a circle by pi and squaring the result will yield the circle's area.

_Weapons of Math Instruction:_ Math instruction… mass destruction… geddit? _(tee-hee)_

_Joseph Louis Lagrange:_ Arguably the greatest mathematician of the 18th century, the Italian-born Lagrange made significant contributions to both analysis and number theory, as well as to celestial and classical mechanics. His many discoveries in the fields of math and astronomy have led many to consider him one of the greatest mathematicians in history.

_Leo Sizlard:_ Born in Hungary on February 11, 1898, Leo Sizlard is widely regarded as one of history's greatest scientific minds. A pioneer in the field of nuclear physics, Sizlard is responsible for inventing research tools such as the linear accelerator and the cyclotron, (an early forerunner of the modern super-collider). His greatest achievements, however, came in the 1930s, after having fled Nazi persecution in Europe. Working with Enrico Fermi, he was the first person in history to create a sustained nuclear chain reaction. In 1939, he partnered with his former college professor Albert Einstein to author the so-called "Einstein-Sizlard Letter," which convinced then President Franklin Delano Roosevelt to sign federal legislation creating the "Manhattan Project:" America's ultimately successful attempt to build the world's first atomic bomb.

_Edwards Air Force Base:_ A large military installation in the deserts of southern California, near the town of Rosamond. In use as a military airfield since 1933, the base has always been a prime location for developmental testing of new and experimental aircraft, and was the home of the famous "X-Plane" program of the 1940s, 50s and 60s. Originally known as Muroc Army Air Field, the base was renamed on December 8, 1949 to honor test pilot Glen Edwards, who was killed in the crash of a Northrop YB-49: An experimental "flying-wing" aircraft, which ultimately paved the way for development of the modern Northrop B-2 Spirit stealth bomber.

_AH-64/D Apache Longbow:_ Originally built by Hughes Aircraft in 1984 as a replacement for the aging Bell AH-1 Cobra, the Apache is one of the most advanced attack helicopters in the air today. Powered by twin General Electric T700 Turboshaft engines, the Apache is fast, durable, and highly adaptable. The Apache Longbow, now being built by Boeing, represents the most recent variant of this airframe, and incorporates several technological advances such as touch-screen controls, lightweight ceramic armor, and the repositioning of key sensor arrays in a housing above the main rotor, allowing the Apache to observe its surroundings without exposing itself to detection by the enemy.

Now purists will undoubtedly point out that the Apache is a two-seat aircraft, and that weapons systems are operated from the gunner's position, in front of the pilot. For the purposes of this story, however, I figure that the Eagles have made a few modifications to their own birds, allowing for single-man operation of all onboard systems. Maybe they're experiencing a personnel crunch of some sort? Dunno…

_FLIR:_ (Forward-Looking Infra-Red) A sophisticated night vision system in which a thermal image of the area immediately in front of an aircraft is projected into heads-up display (HUD) panel, mounted just inside the aircraft's windshield.

_AGM-114 Hellfire:_ The Hellfire is a laser-guided, "fire-and-forget" weapon designed for use in an anti-tank role. Launched from rails mounted beneath the Apache's abbreviated wings, its 20-pound, impact-detonated warhead is capable of defeating even the most advanced armor on the battlefield today.

_M-230:_ One of the most notable components of the Apache Weapons System, the M-230 was a technological marvel in and of itself when first introduced in the late 1970s. Along with its revolutionary Integrated Helmet And Display Sight System (IHADSS), it features advances such as a positive cook-off safety, (open bolt clearing), and an electrical loader, which prevents misfires from creating ammo jams. Capable of firing 625 rounds per minute, the M-230 is about as lethal as small-bore cannon come.

_System of Rank:_ Before I go any further with this story, it's probably a good idea to pause and explain the system of rank, which I envision the Eagles using. For the most part, I see it as a composite system, combining an abbreviated list of the U.S. Army's enlisted ranks, with the U.S. Navy's officer ranks. Enlisted ranks would be, in ascending order: Private, Private First Class, Corporal, Sergeant, Staff Sergeant, Sergeant First Class and Master Sergeant. Officers would ascend from Ensign, through Lieutenant Junior Grade, Lieutenant, Lieutenant Commander, Commander, Captain, Rear Admiral, Vice Admiral, and finally, Admiral.

Enlisted ranks are displayed by a series of chevrons worn on the shoulder, while officer ranks are shown by a "Stripes and Rockers" system displayed in the same location.

The source for this system is my own fertile imagination. If you find it disagreeable… _tough!_ It's my story and I'll write it however I darn-well want to. _Nyah!_

Be sure to tune in next time, when Kim is reminded just why she drags Ron along on missions, and Ron discovers what happens when your target shoots back. Same time… same station.

_Nutzkie…_


	6. First Blood

**Required Legal Mumbo-Jumbo:**

For the record, I don't own KP. The same goes for any characters, settings, descriptions or catch-phrases which you may or may not happen to recognize from the show. Any and all attempts to sue me will be met with severe disappointment. (Can't get blood from a turnip, folks.) Employees and their families are ineligible. Must be 21 or older. No purchase necessary. Void where prohibited. See store for details. Prosecutors will be violated. All rights reserved. So there!

* * *

**- Chapter Six -**

Throughout history, the desert has been a source of inspiration for artists and poets alike. Generations have come to gaze upon its stark barrenness, and have found beauty in what many have called its "sterile simplicity."

They obviously never had to walk across it.

Trudging across the featureless landscape, coming to know it on such intimate terms, the desert quickly looses its luster. Stripped of its poetic aura, it becomes a hellish wasteland, fit only for the likes of snakes and scorpions.

For the redheaded teenager now finding herself in just such a position, this point was being driven home with overbearing efficiency. The sun beat down with ruthless intensity and the scorched earth burned through the soles of her boots. Beads of sweat ran down from her brow and trickled into her eyes, stinging with their salty sweetness. This was a side of the desert that the hordes of tourists flooding Palm Springs each year would never see.

"_At least mullet-head is close by."_ Kim thought as she trudged along, thankful that Wade had been able to arrange for a drop-point so close to her objective. _"I'll just wreck whatever plan he's cooking on, detain his goons, and get the heck out of this living furnace before I melt."_

Aside from the heat, she was also lamenting the fact that she now found herself going into action without any backup. Mottos about being able to do anything not withstanding, taking on the bad guys solo wasn't something that she relished. Maybe Global Justice had been onto something when they had researched the "Ron Factor," she occasionally thought. His presence on missions did help her to elevate her own game, even if she herself was hard-pressed to explain why or how.

Plowing forward through the blinding heat, she took solace in the knowledge that she wasn't totally alone. Wade was keeping track of her through the network of GJ surveillance satellites, and if things got hairy, he would be able to summon help. She just hoped that whatever help was sent would get there in time.

Ultimately, however, it was all just water under the bridge. She had accepted the mission, and come hell or high water, she was obligated to see it through. "Quitting" was simply a term that you would not find in her vocabulary.

Rounding a rock outcrop, several silhouettes came into view along the brow of a distant sand dune. Back-lit by the sun, they were impossible to identify at first, but as Kim drew closer, their identities became abundantly clear.

"Dude, check it out! This is like, my most wickedly awesome idea ever… seriously!"

"It's a work of genius, boss."

"Isn't it? I mean, seriously, who will ever even think about cutting this baby off in traffic? It's the uber-ultimate in urban transportation! Seriously!"

"Yeah, but how's it do on gas?"

"Awwww, man! Why you gotta bring me down like that? Seriously… What's up with you and those negative waves? Besides, with what this baby will save on parking, we can totally afford the gas. …Seriously."

"Not bad… But can it keep you out of jail?"

Motor Ed and his goons spun around at the sound the voice behind them, only to confront what they most definitely felt was an all-too familiar sight.

"Well, well, well…" the mullet-wearing mastermind said, crossing his oversized arms defiantly across his chest. "Look who decided to come spend a day at the beach with us. Welcome, Red, to Motor Ed's personal playground."

"So not interested." Kim snapped back. "And you Jersey boys probably wouldn't like west coast beaches, anyway. They're not littered with medical waste like you're used to."

"Woah there, foul ball Red!" Ed shot back. "That's a low blow, dissin' a man's home state like that. Seriously."

"Meh, I call 'em the way I see 'em." Kim replied with a shrug. "Sooooo… What say we just skip the banter and skip right to you telling me what your newest whack-job of a plan is. The sooner I know, the sooner I can kick your biscuit, and the sooner I can get home and take a cold shower."

"_Teh-heh_, not if you're gonna take that attitude, I'm not." Ed quipped. "You gotta learn to show some respect for your arch foes. All that teenage sass… it's totally whacked… seriously."

"All right! All right! I'm sorry about the 'tude." Kim would have loved to argue the point, but she loved the idea of getting out of the blistering sun substantially more. "Now what's your 'plan of the week' this time around? Another juiced-up monster truck of some sort, I'm guessing?"

"_Sha…_ As if, Red. Monster trucks are _so_ last model year. This season, it's all about driver protection and versatility."

"Meaning?"

"I have created the ultimate robotic roadster." Ed stated flamboyantly, with an exaggerated sweep of his arm. "It's big, it's bad, it can go anywhere and it can do anything. Nothing on the road can touch it. Seriously."

"Yeah… Not to burst your bubble or anything, but haven't I seen one of these before?" Kim sarcastically inquired. "I think it was called a 'Hummer.'"

"_Sha…_ So not! The Hummer is like _'neener neener neeeeeeee-ner.'_" Ed retorted, doing an obviously weak rendition of his signature air-guitar routine. "But the Destructomobile is like _'YEEEEEAH YEAHYEAHYEAH YEAH YEEEEEEEAAAAAH!!'_ It's the ultimate, self-driving, urban assault vehicle."

"Destructomobile? Gee, fire up the email and alert 'Motortrend.'" Kim dryly responded, rolling her eyes for effect. "I _sooooo_ can't wait to see this."

"I seriously thought you'd never ask." Ed said, pulling a small remote from the pocket of his ragged jeans.

Moments later the ground began to shake with the approach of some unknown force. Vibrations pulsed through the ground and up through her boots, quickly being joined by the sound of a low, guttural rumble. Instinctively, Kim dropped into a battle crouch, ready to defend herself against whatever mechanical menace Motor Ed was about to throw at her. She dug her feet into the sandy ground and clinched her fists, ready for anything.

Anything, that is, besides a quartet of remote-controlled tanks appearing along the ridge where the motor-obsessed madman and his assistants now stood.

"Aren't they just the total sweetness?" Ed asked rhetorically, his expression gushing with pride. "Now let's see what they can do… _seriously."_

With the push of a button, the tanks began to advance downhill toward the spot where Kim now stood frozen. This was a lot more than she had bargained for, after all, and it took he a moment to gather her wits and assess the sitch. She obviously couldn't go head-to-head with such overwhelming firepower, she quickly deduced, and that left only one other option. She would have to fall back and look for something that would give her a tactical advantage.

As she raced back toward the outcrop from which she had just come, and with the noise of the mechanical beasts growing louder in her ears, one thought came through her mind loud and clear:

"_I sure wish I had a distraction right about now!"_

* * *

"Dang! Now _that_ was a _rush!_"

"Hurk… Uh-huh, _Dang!_"

Ron looked down at his small, pink companion, taking note of his own wide-eyed expression being reflected in the face of his pet. Even now, his heart was still racing inside of his chest, and his sweaty palms were moistening the inside of his flight gloves. The smell of cordite smoke was strong in his nostrils, permeating the inside of the cockpit.

There was no doubt about it: The GAU-8 Avenger cannon kicked _major_ buttage!

Capable of unleashing 4,200 rounds per minute, the seven-barreled, 30 millimeter Gatling gun was the size of a small car, and packed the capability to pump a tank full of more holes than five pounds of rotten Swiss cheese. Hands down, it was the ultimate in aerial armament…

And that was just for openers.

For the moment, Ron couldn't help but marvel at how far he had come in such a short amount of time. Barely more than a month ago, he had been just a lowly sidekick. Nobody knew who he was, and fewer still even cared. Flying for him had involved, at most, a seat back in coach, and more often than not, a cramped corner of some rusty, dusty cargo plane.

Now he was at the controls of one of the most lethal weapons platforms currently in the air. The Republic/Fairchild A-10 Thunderbolt II may not have been fast, or had the sleek looks of its more glamorous cousins, but it was as rugged as the mountains themselves, and it carried enough firepower to decimate a small city.

Affectionately known to its crews as the "Warthog," it closely resembled its namesake in that it was both butt-ugly, and a glutton for punishment. The cockpit was essentially a titanium bathtub, and the oversized canopy provided not only excellent visibility, but also substantial protection in the form of armored glass over three-inches thick. The fanjet engines offered superior fuel-efficiency, allowing for plenty of loiter time over a target, and were mounted in a unique outboard configuration, allowing for a damaged engine to burn and fall away without harming other sections of the plane's structure.

A unique double-tail served to both mask the craft's infra-red signature, and offered redundancy of control. Even with half of his tail gone, a pilot could still maintain control of his bird, and the excellent glide characteristics of the Warthog's slab-like wings meant that the bird could stay aloft even with 40 percent of its wing shot away.

Hydraulic systems came equipped with mechanical backups, and vital areas were protected by lightweight, Kevlar-backed ceramic armor. All in all, the plane was tough as nails, easy to maintain, and capable of eye-watering turns and maneuvers that few other planes could match.

And for the next few days, it was all his.

Just as the case had been with the Apache before, the desert was his playground. Seeking out targets and destroying them with ruthless efficiency, he found himself wondering how he could ever go back to playing video games after experiencing the real deal in this way.

No sir-ree… Virtual reality didn't have nothing on actual reality.

Turning his head from side to side, he was scanning the horizon in search of his next target when the voice of his controller crackled across the radio.

"Break-off, Mad Dog… Repeat, break off attack!"

"Uhhh… Roger that. Breaking off from target and standing down." Ron replied with more than just a bit of confusion evident in his voice.

"Stand-by for new mission orders." The controller flatly informed him.

"Ohhhhh-kaaaaay…"

"Copy one… new mission… tactical ground support… come to course heading two-fiver-two degrees, mark two, angels two. Range to target, two-eight nautical miles."

"Roger control, coming to course two-fiver-two." Ron robotically responded, gradually banking the plane around. Then his curiosity got the best of him.

"Uh, that's majorly outside the training area, dude." He observed. "Just what in the heck is going on here?"

"Global Justice reports friendly assets under attack in the vicinity." Came the quick reply. "Your orders are to lend close-air support by whatever means you have at your disposal."

"Uh, maybe you're new and didn't know, but I'm just a trainee." Ron protested. "I don't think I'm quite cut out for this live-fire stuff just yet."

"Maybe not, Mad Dog," Control replied, "but currently you are our only asset in the vicinity."

The controller's voice then softened to a tone of concern.

"Listen, I know it sucks to get hit with this so early in your program, but it's all on you right now. Just do the best you can, allright?"

"Great! Just peachy!" Ron groaned. "Ya' know, I was actually having a pretty good day up until just now."

"Welcome to army life, soldier."

"All right then… What are the enemy assets?" Ron asked, feeling that more information was better right now.

"Multiple armored vehicles."

"And the terrain?"

"Slightly rugged… Sand dunes and dry stream beds."

"Defenses?"

"Uncertain at this time… Possibly light anti-aircraft. Anticipate SAMs."

"What about friendly forces?"

"Single infantry asset in the vicinity."

"Just one?" Ron asked incredulously. "Don't those guys normally work in squads?"

"I'm just reading the intell sheet, here."

'Yeah, okay." Ron replied. "Copy one. I'm inbound to target. Four minutes out."

Taking a final reading from his compass, Ron pushed the throttle forward and felt the twin engines accelerate, pushing him back into his seat. He swallowed hard, thinking about the task now before him. This wasn't a training exercise like the ones he was used to. This was a real-life battle, with real targets shooting real bullets, some of which would almost certainly be directed at him.

What was even more disconcerting to him was that there was a real-live person down there who very soon would be depending on his skills to keep them alive. The thought of decisions he was about to make determining whether another human being lived to see the sunset that night filled him with a fear the likes of which he had never experienced before. His breath grew shallow, and he gripped the control yoke so tightly that beneath his black flight gloves, his knuckles turned white. This was _so_ not the mission he had signed up for.

And yet, in a way, it was. He just hadn't fully appreciated it at the time. He was now, for all practical purposes, a soldier, and a soldier's task in life was really quite simple: To kill people and break things.

This wasn't some mission to destroy a death ray, or stop a mind control plot. This was war, and when going to war, all of the childhood niceties about fighting the good fight and nobody getting hurt got checked at the door. This was the mission he had signed up for, and come rain or come sun, he was obligated to carry it out.

"Oh man, Rufus…" Ron lamented under his breath as the 'Hog droned onward. "You'd better secure your tray and bring your seat back forward, because this ride is about to hit some major turbulence."

* * *

So much for this being a quick and easy mission.

Now facing four autonomous battle tanks, Kim was quickly running out of both options and stamina. She had adopted a strategy of staying in close to the mechanical monstrosities, keeping herself inside the arc of their giant guns. There was a small blind spot up close to the vehicle's hull, she had found, and she exploited this to her full advantage.

With four tanks to worry about, however, this was easier said than done. When she ducked in close to one, it's partners would pull away for a clear shot, forcing her to take cover on the other side of her reluctant ally. With two other tanks to worry about, however, even this tactic would only remain effective for so long.

Vaulting into a handspring, she managed to land atop the turret of one of her attackers. Pausing for a moment to catch her breath, she was forced to leap for her life once again as one of the other tanks swung its mighty gun around and fired. As she hit the ground and rolled, the thunderous explosion behind her told that her odds had just gotten slightly better. However, it was still a three-on-one chess match she was involved in, and she was quickly becoming winded. She had to find a way of ending this quickly, or else the menacing machines would simply overwhelm her.

Hoping that the advantage of high ground would do her some good, she took off in a full sprint for the summit of a nearby ridge. Digging deep for every last ounce of strength she could muster, she clawed into the loose, rocky soil and surged to the precipice. There, having finally seized what she assumed was some sort of strategic advantage over the sitch, she looked around, and froze at what she saw.

Two more tanks were advancing up the far side of the ridge, their approach focused directly on her. Seized by fear, she spun on her heels and bolted back down the slope she had just ascended only moments before. She had gone about ten feet, when she pulled up short, staring wide-eyed at the sight in front of her.

One of the tanks she had just fled had now advanced partially up the slope and had drawn a bead right onto her, the bore of its great gun seeming to be the size of a garbage can. She glanced wildly about, finding no cover or viable route of escape. She was surrounded on all sides, and she knew it. It was game over.

Staring into the single, black eye of the tank's mighty cannon, Kim saw her entire life flash before her eyes, and what she saw was about 60 years too short. There were birthday parties, her first day of high school, her first mission, and most of all, her first day of Pre-K.

It was this image that for the longest moment, haunted her most of all. It was the day her entire life had changed: It was the day she had met Ron. He was first and foremost within that memory, and Kim suddenly realized that he figured prominently in all of the others as well. At every turning point in her life, at every watershed moment, Ron had been there: An immoveable, irreplaceable fixture within her life story, and an integral part of who she was, and what she always dreamed she could be.

She envisioned their future together: A future that was not to be. She imagined the two of them on their wedding day, on the day their first child would be born, and how they would have grown old together, never loosing that beautiful spark that had always burned so brightly between them.

Closing her tear-filled eyes before the darkness of eternity overtook her, she clinched her fists, and softly whispered his name…

The very air around her seemed to reverberate with the roar of the explosion. For several seconds, Kim allowed an eerie silence to wash over her. Then, as her senses slowly returned, she became aware of the scents that surrounded her. It was a mixture of dust and cordite, and to fill in the mental picture even more she could still feel the heat of the desert across the whole of her body.

Slowly opening her eyes to the sun's brutal assault, she was shocked to see the tank, which only moments before had been poised and ready to blast her into oblivion, was now a flaming wreck on the desert floor. Riddled with holes and with its hatches blown open, ejecting fountains of fire, it was clear that the threat it posed was officially neutralized.

Glancing about the surrounding desert, Kim searched wildly for the source of her salvation. Seconds later, she instinctively hit the deck as a large craft roared low through the smoke plume emanating from the burning hulk, passing directly over her head. Craning her neck, she looked up to see the strangest-looking plane she had ever laid eyes on, climbing steeply away from her, rolling and dispensing magnesium flares as it went.

"_What the heck is THAT?"_ was the only response that would come to her.

* * *

"Booyah, baby!" Ron shouted as he pulled up and away from his target. "Live free and _party_ hard!"

His mind quickly flashed to the incredible, destructive power of the GAU-8 that he had just witnessed, as well as the effectiveness of the ammo mixture it was firing. His load-out that day was a special combination of armor piercing and high explosive shells that the Warthog's crews referred to as "party mix," although individuals on the receiving end of such a concoction seldom found reason to celebrate.

Any further thoughts on this subject were abruptly curtailed as a burst of tracers streaked by his left wing. Just as he had predicted mere minutes before, the tanks had now turned their attention toward him. In a way, this was a good thing, he forced himself to admit: It gave any friendly ground forces a chance to take cover.

Completing his final roll, he broke sharply to his right and dove for the cover of a nearby dry riverbed, dodging stray flak bursts as he went. Dropping down low, he used the natural topography for cover as he moved into position for another attack run.

This was what the A-10 was built for, after all. Hugging the lay of the land, dodging and weaving through enemy ground forces, absorbing punishment and giving it back ten-fold. It was an unstoppable juggernaut, and it was good at what it did.

* * *

Kim remained still for several seconds as the squadron of tanks surrounding her now turned their attention toward this new arrival, which their electronic brains now perceived to be the greater threat. Then, recognizing the opportunity, she took off in a mad dash, racing desperately for a nearby streambed. Reaching her objective, she leapt down into the shallow ravine and took shelter behind a rock escarpment, gasping for breath as she did so.

After taking several seconds to catch her breath, she peered warily over the escarpment, observing the battlefield that she had just abandon. One of the tanks that had forced her down from the ridge was just now cresting the top if the precipice, while her mystery backup simultaneously appeared out of a nearby ravine, climbing sharply at first, then rolling over into a shallow, screaming dive.

Seeing the plane in profile for the first time, Kim actually flinched. With its bulbous nose, oversized canopy and slender fuselage, it was more homely-looking than a Smarty Mart prom dress…

And at that particular moment, she couldn't think of a more beautiful sight in the world.

* * *

Popping out of the river canyon like a human cannonball, Ron quickly rolled to dive back down onto his hapless prey. He quickly honed in on a single tank that was just cresting a distant ridge, its entire right flank exposed to his firing line.

He was practically licking his chops as he quickly selected one of the half-dozen AGM-65 Maverick anti-tank missiles at his disposal. A few well-pushed buttons later and the missile was away, streaking toward its target with deadly precision.

Impact was swift and lethal, as the 125-pound hollow-charge warhead sliced through the thick, steel armor like a knife through warm butter. The tank's turret popped into the air like the cap off a bottle of warm soda pop, coming to rest upside-down next to the flaming hull.

Roaring directly over his stricken victim, Ron once again pitched up into a steep climb. He was about to execute another series of exit rolls when a different thought crossed his mind. Instead, he grabbed the stick with both hands and pulled back into his lap, sending the unshapely jet arcing back through an aggressive over-the-top maneuver to dive down once more onto his next target. G Forces pinned him to his seat as he felt the loop peak, accelerating him into a screaming dive, rolling back over upright as he did.

Visually scanning the area, he quickly located the object that had grabbed his attention moments before. Two tanks, side-by-side, moving along the desert floor: A golden opportunity. He felt a small drop of drool run down from the corner of his mouth and into the bottom of his oxygen mask as he relished the vision of a two-for-one kill: The aviation equivalent of hitting a grand slam.

Drawing a quick bead on his newest target, he activated the canisters of Hydra 70 aerial rockets mounted under each of his wings. With 19 rockets per canister set to fire in salvo, one pull of the trigger was equivalent to a 15-gun artillery barrage.

With a final adjustment to his aim, he fired, his target temporarily becoming obscured by the con-trails of the rockets. Moments later, a rolling ripple of explosions could be seen through the fog, and he knew that he had hit his mark square on. He pitched up and climbed away once again.

* * *

"Aw, man… My babies!" Motor Ed screamed out at the sight now unfolding before him. "This is so totally not fair. Seriously!"

Within the last two minutes, he had gone from watching what he thought was certain victory, to agonizing defeat, his remote-controlled minions being torn to shreds by this unexpected newcomer. Now with only one surviving Destructomobile, he decided that it was time to cut his losses, and beat a hasty retreat.

"Dudes… Party's over! Seriously." He shouted to his assistants. "Everybody in the chopper and let's get the heck back to Jersey!"

Turning his attention back to the remote he still held in his hands, he entered a "recall" command, bringing the surviving tank back toward him.

* * *

Circling high above the field of battle, Ron glanced worriedly about. He knew he had seen another tank down there, he was sure of it, but it seemed to have simply vanished into thin air. He must be overlooking it somehow, he thought to himself.

Thinking outside the box, he activated his thermal scanners. Normally used as part of the Warthog's elaborate night vision systems, the sensitive instruments worked just as well in broad daylight, picking up on minute differences of temperature within the environment. If he couldn't visually see the target, he thought, perhaps its heat signature would give it away.

It didn't take but a few seconds to get his answer, as the sensors quickly registered an exhaust plume emanating from behind a dune.

"Gotcha, you tin-plated automoton!" Ron growled. "You can run all ya' want, but you're just gonna die tired."

Dropping the warthog's nose slightly, he sent the plane into a lazy bank, rolling gradually into his target. A series of deftly quick moves activated the LANTIRN pod mounted on the plane's belly, directly below him and to his right, and a few thumb twitches of the hat switch atop the control yoke brought the crosshairs directly onto the now fleeing vehicle.

Casually, he flipped up a small protective cover, exposing the ordinance release switch atop the yoke.

"The target is painted and the pickle is hot." He grinned. "Time to deliver some air-mail."

Mashing she small red button with his thumb, he felt the Warthog lurch upwards as the 500-pound laser-guided bomb released and began its earthward plummet. His eyes were glued to the in-dash monitor as he kept the crosshairs steadily over the center of the tank. As the seconds ticked by, the anticipation became almost palpable. Sweat trickled down his cheeks under his mask. His eyes narrowed with intense focus.

Suddenly, the tank was engulfed in a massive fireball, hatches and pieces of track sent flying in all directions by the magnitude of the blast. Pulling up and away from the destruction, he glanced back to see the massive hull of the tank flayed open like a giant sardine tin, revealing an interior that was now little more than a raging inferno. It had been a direct hit.

"Booyah!" Rufus squeaked, climbing up onto his owner's shoulder to exchange a tiny high-five.

"That's affirmative, little buddy." Ron grinned as he raised his index finger to meet the miniscule paw being offered. "All targets neutralized." It was at that moment that a glance out the right-hand side of the cockpit brought something to his attention.

"Well, maybe not all targets." He growled menacingly. In the desert below, he could see the forms of several no-goodish looking characters fleeing toward a waiting helicopter, and he simply knew that he needed to prevent their escape. He had to take that machine out.

Dropping down into another shallow dive, he selected a set of weapons that few people would ever expect the Thunderbolt to carry.

While the Eagles may have loved their technology just as much as the next guy, they were smart enough to realize that every technology has both its limits, and its vulnerabilities. Tech could fail at the most inopportune times, and when it did, it was usually handy to have some decidedly low-tech backups in place.

All in all, there was always something to be said for doing things the old-fashioned way, and to this end the A-10 drew inspiration from its namesake predecessor, Republic P-47 Thunderbolt.

Specially modified by G.J. maintenance personnel, the Eagles' A-10s carried a quartet of .50 caliber machine guns in each of their wings. Set in a staggered arrangement to increase ammo capacity, these guns were just as devastating as when they had first been carried aloft by the original Thunderbolt during the dark days of World War Two. They were capable of severing a wing or fuselage from a Luftwaffe fighter, decimating a Wermacht infantry column, or even sinking a ship.

In this case, however, the entirety of their furry was about to be unleashed upon a highly vulnerable and unlucky copter.

Aiming just a few feet above the main rotor to allow for bullet drop, he squeezed off a three-second burst, and watched as the chopper disintegrated before his eyes. A broad smile creased the face beneath his mask as he grasped the larger implications of the sitch.

The enemy forces weren't going anywhere, and the threat they posed had been eliminated. His mission had been an unqualified success, and throughout it all, he was amazed to realize that he had hardly been nervous at all. It seemed that once the bullets had started flying, his focus on the task at hand drowned out any fear he may have had about the danger he was facing, or what the consequences of his decisions might be. His world had suddenly narrowed to a small sphere, encompassing just him and his target: A sort of "tunnel vision" that made him ruthlessly efficient in achieving the objectives set before him.

In any case, however, he needed to be getting back to base. After this particular mission, the debriefing was bound to be excruciatingly lengthy, and tomorrow promised to be another brutally long day: Just like every day since he had signed up.

Turning the bulbous nose of the plane toward home, he looked down at his hairless pink companion once again…

"We did good today, little man." he sighed. "We did good."

* * *

"Awwwww, dude… This is, like, so seriously whacked… _Seriously!_" Motor Ed lamented as he looked at the smoldering remains of his meticulously tricked-out chopper. "And I totally just had the thing detailed, too!"

"Uh, boss…" one of his assistants timidly asked. "So, like, how are youz supposin' we should be getting' outta here now?"

"I'm sure Global Justice will be more than happy to give you a lift," a familiar voice called out from behind them, "straight to prison."

"Aw, c'mon Red!" the mullet-wearing madman lamented loudly. "First you jack a guy's rides, then you send him to prison? Show a little heart, will ya!"

"…Or you could just stay stranded out here in the desert." Kim added with a smile.

"Uh, prison sound good to me, boss." One of the assistants broke in.

"Yeah, me too."

"Errrgh! All right, we'll do the prison thing." Ed finally relented. "Even if it is totally bogus."

"Good call." Kim chided, activating the Kimmunicator.

"Wade, I need transport for Motor Ed and three of his goons, stat!" Kim informed the young web master once his image had appeared on the screen.

"On its way, Kim." Wade replied before continuing. "So are you okay, then? It looked like things got pretty dicey there for a bit."

"Yeah, I'm just spankin'." Kim reassured her friend. "The backup arrived just in time. By the way, just who the heck _was_ that guy?"

"No idea, Kim." Wade honestly replied. "I just sent out a distress call to G.J., and they said they'd put somebody on it. To be honest, I really wasn't expecting heavy firepower like that."

"Well I'm sure glad they _did_ send it." Kim confided. "Turned out that was just what the doctor ordered."

She then turned her gaze toward the horizon over which her rescuer had recently disappeared. Staring intently at the empty sky, she felt a sudden sense of longing that she couldn't explain. It felt as though she shared some sort of connection with this mysterious pilot whom she did not know, and yearned to meet face to face.

As the distinctive sound of a G.J. hover jet approached from the distance, she found herself asking an overly-cliché, yet deeply emotional question:

"_Who was that masked man?"_

* * *

**Author's Notes:**

Well, this chapter turned out to be somewhat longer than I had originally anticipated… But then again, so has the entire story. When I originally envisioned this storyline, I saw it as being about six chapters in length. My how plans can change.

Six chapters is where we're currently standing, my fellow stockholders, and I'm just now getting to the half-way point of my outline. I'm probably gonna take this as yet another lesson in how these stories can sometimes develop a life all their own. Somehow, they just never wind up where you expected them to be.

Now I'm well aware of the military's love of all things acronyms, so to help translate the alphabet soup, here's my latest list of glossary terms… For your reading enjoyment, of course.

_GAU-8 Avenger:_ The weapon around which the A-10 was built. A product of the General Electric Corporation, the GAU-8 is one of the most effective and fearsome anti-tank weapons on the modern battlefield. Powered by a pair of hydraulic pumps, it has a variable firing rate of either 1,800 or 4,200 rounds per minute. This is the weapon that decimated entire battalions of Iraqi armor during the 1991 Gulf War.

_Republic/Fairchild A-10 Thunderbolt II:_ One of the undisputed heroes of Gulf War I, the unsightly Thunderbolt has long since come to be known affectionately by its crews as the "Warthog," both for its incredible durability and the fact that the protruding rivets along its rear fuselage resemble warts. The first plane ever employed by the U.S. military that was designed specifically for a close air support role, the United States Air Force was reluctant to accept the plane at first, preferring to leave the task to army helicopters and the nation's aging fleet of A-4 Skyhawks. During the Gulf War, however, the Hog proved its worth, and today the A-10 is expected to remain in the USAF arsenal until the year 2028.

_Party Mix:_ A custom load-out for the GAU-8, using a four-to-one ratio of ammunition. In this set-up, for every round of PGU-14/B armor-piercing incendiary ammunition, there are four rounds of PGU-13/B High-explosive incendiary ammo. The PGU-14/B round incorporates a depleted uranium (DU) penetrator, for maximum effectiveness against heavy armor. The mixture has become a favorite of A-10 crews currently serving in Afghanistan.

_Rolling and Flares:_ An evasion tactic often used by Thunderbolt pilots when exiting a target area. Many ground targets are protected by anti-aircraft defenses such as heavy machine guns and Surface-to-Air Missiles (SAMs). Furthermore, a plane is usually at its most vulnerable when flying away from an enemy. Barrel-rolling during this critical time serves to throw-off the aim of enemy gunners, and magnesium flares serve as thermal decoys, distracting any heat-seeking missiles that may be fired at the retreating jet.

_AGM-65 Maverick:_ Built jointly by Hughes Aircraft and the Raytheon Corporation, the AGM (Air to Ground Missile) 65 is a long range, anti-tank missile deployed aboard many American and NATO military platforms. A highly adaptable weapon, systems capable of deploying the Maverick include the A-4 Skyhawk, F-4 Phantom II, A-6/E Intruder, A-7 Corsair II, AV-8 Harrier II, A-10 Thunderbolt II, F-15 Strike Eagle, F-16 Fighting Falcon, F/A-18 Hornet, F-111 Aardvark and the P-3 Orion.

_Hydra 70 Rocket:_ An unguided, air-launched, fin-stabilized rocket first deployed by American armed forces during the conflict in Vietnam. The Hydra is mounted in a canister-type launch pod, containing either seven or 19 rockets per canister, depending on the model. First deployed aboard Bell UH-1 Iroquois helicopters, (better known as "Hueys"), it has since been adapted to a variety of airframes, and proven itself to be a devastating ground-attack weapon.

_LANTIRN Pod:_ Low Altitude Navigation and Targeting Infra Red for Night (LANTIRN) is a sophisticated two-part night vision system used for both targeting and navigation. The navigational component, known as the AN/AAQ-13, provides high-speed penetration and precision attack on tactical targets at night and in adverse weather. The navigation pod also contains terrain-following radar and a fixed infrared sensor, which provides visual cue and input to the aircraft's flight control system, enabling it to maintain a pre-selected altitude above the terrain and avoid obstacles. This sensor displays an infrared image of the terrain in front of the aircraft, to the pilot, on the cockpit Heads-Up Display (HUD). The pod enables the pilot to fly along the general contour of the terrain at high speed, using mountains, valleys and the cover of darkness to avoid detection.

The Targeting component, designated as the AN/AAQ-14, contains a high-resolution, Forward-Looking Infra Red (FLIR) sensor, (which displays an infrared image of the target to the pilot), a laser designator/rangefinder for precise delivery of laser-guided munitions, a missile boresight correlator for automatic lock-on of the AGM-65 Maverick, and software for automatic target tracking.

_Republic P-47 Thunderbolt:_ Nicknamed the "Jug," both for its juggernaut-type characteristics and its milk-jug shape, the Thunderbolt is one of the legendary fighters of the Second World War. Weighing in at eight tons, it was the heaviest fighter of the war, thanks mostly to its heavy armor plating. However, this isn't to say that the Jug was sluggish. With its Pratt & Whitney R-2800-59 turbocharged radial engine producing 2,535 horsepower, it could outrun almost any plane in the axis arsenal, and its eight Browning M-2 .50 caliber machine guns were the heaviest armament carried by any allied fighter of the war.

Originally designed as a fighter, the Jug proved especially adept in a ground-attack role, and it was for this reason that when Republic Aviation was charged with the task of designing a new ground attack plane nearly 35 years later, the name "Thunderbolt" was chosen to christen the new design.

Well, I guess that just about wraps it up for this chapter, boys and girls. Tune in next time to see what new and exciting things Ron gets to blow up. As the recruiting poster says, after all:

"_Join the army… Travel to exotic lands… Meet new and interesting people… And kill them."_

(Okay, okay… But it really _should_ say that.)

Peace out, dudes!

_Nutzkie…_


	7. Decisions & Consequences

**Required Legal Mumbo-Jumbo:**

For the record, I don't own KP. The same goes for any characters, settings, descriptions or catch-phrases which you may or may not happen to recognize from the show. Any and all attempts to sue me will be met with severe disappointment. (Can't get blood from a turnip, folks.) Employees and their families are ineligible. Must be 21 or older. No purchase necessary. Void where prohibited. See store for details. Prosecutors will be violated. All rights reserved. So there!

* * *

**- Chapter Seven -**

For a machine with a two billion dollar price tag, this was extremely boring.

Although he was pretty sure it wasn't where he'd end up specializing, Ron had actually been looking forward to bomber training. The sheer size of these planes, after all, was awe-inspiring, and the amount of raw destructive force that they could cram into their cavernous bellies was almost beyond comprehension.

Even when it came to the adrenalin factor, the program had started out with promise. Flying in the right-hand seat of Rockwell B-1 Lancer had been an experience the likes of which he had not yet seen. A machine that size, roaring across the terrain at supersonic speed, barely 100 feet off the ground: This was just something that you didn't get to see every day, let alone live.

By now, however, the luster had worn off. Heck, even the B-52 Stratofortress, lumbering behemoth that it was, had been more exciting than this!

Sadly, beneath all the glory and mystique, the Northrop B-2 Spirit was a rather mundane experience. With all of the automation, fly-by-wire systems, and GPS navigation, he felt more like a systems administrator than a pilot, allowing the bat-winged bomber to fly itself while he simply sat back and voted his opinion when prompted by the integrated computers. It was the height of mind-numbing tedium, and it left him wishing that he could play "Zombie Mayhem II" on one of the video screens.

Oh, the cabin interior was comfy, to be sure. There was decent room to move about, and a crew quarters area behind the flight deck included a lavatory, kitchenette and a set of bunk beds. But still, it wasn't the typical "stick-and-rudder" flying that he had come to enjoy so much.

He sighed heavily, resigning himself to the tedium of flying 40-hour-plus training missions for the next few days. If there was any consolation to be had, it was in that this portion of his training would be relatively short. He was only here to get a feel for the airframes, and assure that he could handle one if necessary. His operational future, on the other hand, lay in fighters, and he knew it. He would simply have to bite the bullet for now, and push through these next few days.

Then, he could get back to having fun.

* * *

"Okay, Wade... Ride me." Kim stated bluntly as she dashed about her attic bedroom, shoving the last of her gear into her backpack. "I'm ready for my next target."

"Okay, first of all, that phrase just sounds wrong on so many levels," the young webmaster replied, "and secondly, there's something we need to discuss."

"Ohhhhh, right! Sorry 'bout that." Kim responded, striking her palm against her forehead. "I didn't tell you what the target is."

"Uh, well... actually..."

"I'm going to Yamanuchi. Ron disappeared there twice before, so I'm betting there's a connection involved this time as well."

"Yeah, about that..."

"I know it's a super-secret place and all that, but with your mad computer skills, I'm sure you can figure out the location by the time I get there."

"Uhhhh, Kim..."

"I just hope that Yori girl isn't involved in any of this, because if she is, then I'm gonna take that stupid-looking red headband of hers, and I'm gonna shove it so far up her..."

"KIM!!"

"Huh... Wha...?"

"Would you stop ranting and just listen to me for a dog-gone sec?"

Kim could only manage a sheepish smile at first, realizing what a raving lunatic she must have just looked like.

_"Heh,_ sorry Wade." She finally managed to squeak out. "So what's the sitch?"

"The sitch is ixnay on the ide-ray." Wade replied, his expression conveying nothing but seriousness.

"What do you mean, ixnay?'" Kim inquired, surprised by this sudden rebuff from her long-time associate.

"What I mean, Kim, is that there are no more rides." Wade informed. "I've already called in every favor we have, and then some."

"C'mon, Wade," Kim chided. "There must be something we can do to drum up some transportation. You can do anything, remember?"

"Actually, Kim, that's _your_ motto, and I've already tried every avenue I can think of. The well is just dry."

"Not good enough, Wade." Kim growled, quickly loosing patience with this delay in her quest. "There are always options. I'll do more favors for people... hand out IOUs... I'll stand at the end of the runway with my thumb out and hitchhike a ride to Japan if I have to! I'm not giving up!"

"Darn it, Kim! Would you just get a hold of yourself for one second?" Wade shouted, clearly startling Kim. Such assertive behavior was almost unheard of from the agoraphobic pre-teen, and was a clear sign that something was majorly upsetting him.

"The options basket is empty." He continued with a sigh. "It's time to admit that we've tried everything we can think of, and none of it has worked."

"But I've..."

"Look, I'm sorry Kim. I know how you feel. I mean, I miss him too... I really do, but I just think it's time to face some unpleasant facts."

"If you want to face them, go ahead... See what I care!" Kim shouted in response, making no attempt to conceal her frustration. "But I'm not giving up! With or without you, I'm not quitting! Do you hear me? Nothing's over until I say it is!"

She slammed her thumb down onto the Kimmunicator, severing the link before Wade had a chance to respond. In sheer frustration, she flung the aquamarine device into the far corner of the room, and herself onto her bed.

For nearly the past month-and-a half, she had been living on little more than adrenalin and hope. The eternal optimism of each new mission maybe being the big one had sustained her, buoying her spirit and giving her the strength to carry on.

Now, with her road seemingly at an end, the house of cards she had built for her self came crashing down. The strength suddenly drained from every fiber of her body, and she felt herself violently consumed by a sense of loneliness the likes of which she had never before experienced. Without strength and determination to buttress it, the emotional dam inside of her now burst, releasing a torrent of pent-up sadness, frustration and fear. It was all she could do to simply let the wave wash over her, succumbing to its all-powerful onslaught.

That night, for the first time in many years, Kim Possible cried herself to sleep.

* * *

The plain, wooden door stood as a silent sentinel, its fogged glass window betraying tantalizing clues as to the activities beyond itself, yet refusing to divulge any meaningful detail. It served as both obstacle and invitation: a marvelous anachronism of finely varnished maple and glass.

For Ron Stoppable, it served as the embodiment of a decision: A life-changing choice he was about to make. The simple act of walking through it was anything but simple this day, as the consequences that would surely ensue would be as profound and far-reaching as life itself.

Taking a deep breath and exhaling slowly, he pushed down the butterflies that seemingly filled his stomach. His training had taught him that sometimes there are difficult decisions in life, but the fact that they are difficult does not mean that one should shy away from them. Instead, it means that deciding is all the more important, and should be embraced for all that this importance represents.

Reaching out slowly, he grasped the shiny, brass knob and turned it clockwise, hearing an audible "click" as he did so. The battle within him had now been joined, and it was D-Day.

"Ah, come in, Sergeant." A man behind a mahogany desk called as he entered the small office. "I'll be with you in a second."

Ron moved to a spot directly in front of the desk and stood at attention, his expressionless features set in stone.

"At ease, son." the officer informed, diverting his attention from the pile of paperwork on his desk to the blond figure now standing before him. "You wanted to speak with me about something?"

"Yes, Captain Cohen," Ron replied, "There's something that's been on my mind lately."

"Very well, then... what is it?" the Captain inquired with genuine concern in his voice.

Captain Joshua Cohen was the Eagles' primary flight instructor for advanced tactical and air-to-air training. Having spent several years flying for the Israeli Air Force, he had cut his teeth during the 1973 Yom Kippur War, and had ultimately become a confirmed ace in the F-15 Eagle. As one of the most experienced pilot/instructors in the organization, he was universally respected by all who knew him, and his opinions carried more weight, perhaps, than anyone else on the base.

Known for being a "tough but fair" instructor, the senior officer had taken a genuine liking to Ron when the young boy had first entered his class. Perhaps it was the natural talent he saw in the blond teen that caused him to take such a special interest in the boy, or perhaps it was their common background. With there being very few others of Jewish origin on the base, the ability to connect with another person in such a familiar way was both refreshing and comforting.

Over the past two weeks, he had taken the newly anointed sergeant under his wing, so to speak, and had begun giving him personalized training. When returning from group lessons, if fuel levels would permit it, the two of them would break away from the others and run through one-on-one dogfight scenarios. As the sole beneficiary of such a wealth of experience, Ron's skill soon advanced far beyond any of the other students. Joshua had covered such topics as advanced tactics, strategic positioning and deflection angles, and had taken special care to instill in the boy the Israeli doctrine of getting in close, whenever possible, and fighting with guns instead of missiles.

Although the regulations forbid him from admitting it to any of his students, Ron was one of the best pilots in the program. So it came as no small surprise when Ron finally admitted what had been occupying his mind for the last several days.

"I... I think I want out." Ron dejectedly admitted.

"Out?" came the Captain's one word inquiry.

"Out." Ron replied. "I don't think flying is really for me."

Captain Cohen could only sit silently in stunned disbelief at this admission. For one of his most promising pupils to show such a lack of confidence in him self was almost beyond comprehension. He wondered what in all the world could have possibly brought this about.

"Wha... Whatever for?" he stammered, finally managing to find his voice.

"Well sir," Ron replied, "I don't think I have what it takes. I just don't have the right stuff."

"Have you been failing any of your courses?"

"No sir."

"Are any of the other cadets giving you flak over anything?"

"No sir."

"Well then... What gives?"

Ron had to think long and hard about this question. There were so many things that ran through his mind when he thought about reasons to simply pack-up his stuff and go home.

Not the least of these things was Kim. Although the demanding schedule often kept him too busy to even think about things such as home, He would often find himself lying awake in his bunk at night, thoughts of her beautiful features drifting lazily through his mind like leaves on a summer's breeze. The fullness of her auburn mane... her piercing, emerald eyes that held so much inner strength, and yet so much depth and compassion as well... the way something as simple as her laugh could lift his spirits even on his worst day: These were his nightly companions, and their presence haunted him in a way that he was unable to explain.

Beyond that, there was the sheer magnitude of the workload to consider. Afternoon flight training was a nearly every-day occurrence, usually following morning classroom sessions with all of their requisite exams and pop quizzes. The ubiquitous pre-breakfast calisthenics were still there as well, and in addition to all of this, he was taking a curriculum of high school equivalency courses, which would allow him to graduate with the rest of his class upon his return to Middleton. All in all, he felt it was just proving too much for his slender shoulders to bear.

"It's... It's... It's just too hard, sir." He finally admitted to the officer seated before him. "...Just too difficult."

"I see." the Captain replied, leaning back in his chair and folding his hands in front of him. "Tell me, Sergeant, is this program the hardest thing you've ever done?"

"Yes sir! Without a doubt, sir!"

"Other than this, then... What's the hardest thing you've ever done?"

Ron pondered the question for a moment before responding.

"Well, I did ad-lib a rap on American Starmaker."

"An appearance on a cheap, American Idol knock-off that was canceled after six episodes?" Cohen chided with a raised eyebrow. "I'd hardly say that's in the same league as what we're dealing with here. Surely there must be something else you've done that took exceptional guts."

"Nothing springs to mind, sir."

"Nothing at all?"

"No sir."

Captain Cohen regarded the young man standing in front of him, slowly mulling over what the boy had just said. Finally, after several seconds of silence, he spoke.

"You're a settler, aren't you?"

"Uh, excuse me, sir?"

"A settler: You tend to settle for things."

"I'm not quite sure I follow."

"You tend to take the easy road." The Captain explained. "When confronted with a choice regarding what course of action to take, you don't focus on the end result, but rather decide based on which path will pose the least resistance."

Ron stood there in shock, astounded by how this man had managed to hit his life so squarely on the head. The Captain had him pegged, and they both knew it.

"I understand how it is, son," the Captain continued. "You spend your life, drifting along, avoiding hardship, and becoming quite comfortable with the routine. Then, when hardship does come calling, you don't know how to respond, and you panic. Survival instincts take over, and you turn and run away. Stop me if any of this doesn't sound familiar."

Ron simply nodded in silent agreement.

"The problem with this philosophy, Stoppable," the Captain continued to explain, "is that it can become habit-forming, with one settle leading to another. You settle for sub-standard grades in high school, which leads to settling for a second-rate college. The college means you have to settle for a lower-paying job than you might have ordinarily liked, which leads to, which leads to, which leads to, etcetera."

Cohen leaned forward in his chair. Placing his hands on his temples, he heaved a heavy sigh before pressing on.

"And then comes the fateful morning when you wake up and realize that your entire life has been one big settle. Oh, you'll try to rationalize things. You'll swear to yourself up one side and down the other that you're perfectly happy and that this is the life you always wanted... But the simple fact of the matter will be that it isn't: It's just the life you fell into, and by that point it's usually far too late to do anything about it."

"You are, for all practical purposes, a young man, Stoppable," Cohen said, suddenly raising his gaze to squarely meet Ron's own. "And a big part of being a man is making important decisions when they count. You have a choice here: You can leave the program, continuing to live as the slacker you've always been, and be content with whatever handouts that life and fate may see fit to throw your way, or you can stay, complete the program, and stand up to the world, resolving to make something of yourself, both with your training here, and with life in general."

"This is your crossroads, young man. Whatever path you may choose, I will respect your decision. But be forewarned, the decision you make here today may very well set the tone for the remainder of your time in this world. Choose wisely."

You could have heard a pin drop as an eerie silence descended over the confined space of the office, each man carefully considering the words that had just been spoken. There was power in those words, that much was for certain, and that power had the potential to shape an entire lifetime. Good or bad: it all depended on how the power would be applied.

Ron closed his eyes and listened to the slow, rhythmic cadence of his own breathing as he contemplated what had just been said, and how it applied to his own life. The Captain had certainly been correct in his assessment of Ron's personality, but was he really ready to tackle such an incredible responsibility? Was he really ready to be, as the Captain had so simply put it, a man?

Standing like a statue, he contemplated these things for the longest of moments, only opening his eyes when a consensus of conscience had finally been reached within him. He looked the still seated officer squarely in the eye, the older man's own gaze now filled with a sort of hopeful expectation.

"See you tomorrow at oh-eight-thirty, sir?" Ron asked with a grin.

"And don't be late, Sergeant!" Cohen replied with a smile. "Dismissed."

Snapping to attention, Ron smartly saluted, then turned and walked out, closing the door behind him.

Captain Cohen settled back into his chair with a satisfied smile stretching across his face. The boy had perhaps more potential than any other trainee he had ever seen. There was no doubt that the talent was there, but the boy needed direction: That, and a booster shot of good old-fashioned confidence.

The thought that he might have just given him a healthy dose of both brought him satisfaction to no end.

* * *

Moving through the shadows of yet another dank lair, Kim couldn't help but feel her life had become some sort of cosmic broken record. The repetitiveness of the job was just soul crushing sometimes, with every lair and every scheme looking just like every other lair and scheme. Sure, she was Kim Possible and this was what she did, but she was also human, and just as prone to boredom as the next hero in line.

She should be thankful to even be there at all. Wade had wheeled and dealed and managed to hook her up with another ride, so here she was, infiltrating Dr. Drakken's latest lair, aiming to spoil whatever insanely-complicated, crazy-face plan he had come up with this time around.

Making her way down a corridor, it wasn't long before she came into the main chamber of the lair: A typical round room, with support columns and computer banks lining its perimeter. To one side stood the ever-present storage tanks and their unidentifiable contents of iridescent green fluid.

Although the lights were dim, there appeared to be no motion or activity within the space, so she slowly made her way out toward the room's center. She had only gotten a few feet when a familiar, gravelly voice stopped her dead in her tracks.

"Greetings, Kim Possible… We meet again!"

"Well, you know how it goes, Drakken," Kim said, spinning around to face the blue-hued megalomaniac and his curvaceous sidekick. "I was in the neighborhood… Thought I'd drop by… Yada, yada…"

"Yeah, but you _still_ didn't bring a house warming gift, did you?" Shego called out from her position at the Doctor's side.

"Small talk later, Shego." Drakken reprimanded his assistant, "Right now, we have business to attend to."

"What, no over the top ranting this time? You disappoint me, Drakken." Kim chided. "So what's your can't-miss plan for taking over the world this time? Mutant mosquitoes? Or is it some sort of mind-controlling deodorant?"

"Bah, nothing so complicated this time, I'm afraid." Drakken snorted. "Although that's not a bad idea." He quickly reached into his trench coat and pulled out a small voice recorder.

"Memo to self," he dictated. "Explore potential 'mind-control-deodorant' applications."

"_Way to open your big mouth, Possible!"_ Kim silently reprimanded herself, remembering Ron and his "suggestions" to the Seniors. "Yeah, so getting back to the topic at hand…"

"Yes, right! This week we're dialing things back a bit. It's just a good old-fashioned revenge plot."

"Ohhh-kaaaaay…" Kim replied, noting that this wasn't quite what she was expecting. "So who's the target?"

"You are!" Drakken growled, a sinister grin quickly spreading across his face.

Suddenly a series of floodlights surged to life, revealing a large, laser-like weapon that had been concealed by the shadows of the upper part of the room. Kim's heart skipped a beat when she realized that the weapon was pointed straight at her.

"If you want to kill me, your aim had better have improved since our last meeting." Kim quipped, quickly regaining her composure.

"Who said anything about wanting to kill you?" Drakken asked in return, his smile growing ever wider.

"But… I thought you said…"

"I said this was my revenge against you. I never said I was going to _kill_ you."

"Okay, now I'm officially confused." Kim stated, scratching her head.

"I can do far worse to you than kill you."

"Such as?"

"I can kill _him!_"

With that, another set of floodlights charged up, revealing a medical-looking table with a well-restrained figure strapped to its surface. Kim squinted tightly, trying to make out details of the scene before her. The figure looked familiar to her. It looked like…

RON!

Kim's very blood ran cold at the sight of her lifelong friend strapped helplessly to the stainless steel surface. He turned his head slowly, revealing a black eye that was nearly swollen shut, and a well-bloodied lip. Bruises covered every inch of exposed skin.

"KP?" he squeaked out, his voice little more than a raspy whisper. "I… I can't…"

"Forever remember this as the price of your interference!" Drakken suddenly shouted, pressing a button on a large remote he had pulled from another pocket in his coat.

There was no time to react as the giant weapon swung through a wide arc across the room, coming to rest just a few inches from Ron's battered face, charged and ready to fire.

"_NOOOOOOOOOOOO!!"_ came Kim's horrified scream as the weapon discharged, and Ron disappeared in a brilliant flash of light.

* * *

Kim bolted upright in bed, her scream still echoing in her own ears. Breath came to her in deep, ragged gasps, and the whole of both her pajamas and sheets were drenched in sweat.

"_It was just a nightmare."_ She whispered to herself through the darkness. _"…Only a nightmare. It wasn't real."_

Shaking violently, she drew her knees up to her chest, taking on a sort of fetal position, and embraced herself tightly. She was embarrassed to realize that, while the experience she now remembered may have been just a dream, her scream had been very real, and she had likely woken up the entire house. Silently, she hoped that nobody would come up to see what was wrong. Having anyone, even her family, see her in this state was not an idea that she relished. She was Kim Possible: The savior of the world, and being reduced to a crying, quivering schoolgirl just didn't mesh with that image.

How was she supposed to cope with this? What was she supposed to do? And how had she ever come to be so emotionally dependent on him? She knew he was the best thing to ever happen to her, outside of her own family, of course, but for her to become such an absolute wreck in his absence? These questions raced through her mind like a pack of greyhounds trapped in a rabbit ranch. These were questions that plagued her: Questions that had no answers.

Quietly, she fetched Pandaroo from the edge of her bed and clutched the small plush toy tightly against her chest, as if trying to muffle the sound of her heart, which was even now still hammering away inside of her. She buried her face into the stuffed creature, wishing desperately that it was Ron she was holding instead.

This was going to be a long night, she silently admitted to herself: Undoubtedly the first of many long nights.

* * *

Sandwiched between dark blue sea and light blue sky, a familiar form streaked through the ethos, its distinctive up-turned wingtips and downward-canted tail betraying its identity to all those old enough to remember a time when it dominated the skies of south-east Asia.

It had been a few years since Global Justice had pulled a handful of the aging McDonnell F-4 Phantoms from an aviation bone yard in the Arizona desert, but the Vietnam-era relics still had the right stuff, and now served as advanced trainers for students entering the Eagles' naval operations program.

And so it came to be that Ensign Ron Stoppable was guiding an aircraft as old as his mother on a carefully plotted course toward a tiny patch of ocean far below.

"Mad Dog One, you are clear to the slot." The voice of the air boss suddenly broke in over the radio. "Call the ball."

"Roger ball." Was his simple reply. He began to go through a checklist in his head, taking mental note of each and every task he needed to complete for a successful landing.

"_Gear down… Check! Tail hook down… Check! Flaps at three-quarters… Check! Chop throttle to sixty percent… Got it! Pray to God…"_

He blinked slowly and swallowed hard.

"_Check!"_

He kept reminding himself that this wasn't anything he hadn't done before. One day prior, he had spent an entire afternoon practicing touch-and-go landings on the outline of an aircraft carrier's flight deck, painted on one of the runways at the base. But still, there had been a margin for error involved that had been somewhat comforting. If you were slightly off on the runway, it was really no big. Miss the flight deck, however, and you'd better be a strong swimmer.

Moving his attention to the heads-up display, he checked the various indicators to confirm his course. Three electronic icons stared back at him. There was the center-point indicator: essentially a circle with three protruding lines, indicating where the nose of his ship was pointed. Below that was the diamond-shaped velocity vector, indicating his glide path, and surrounding it all was the attitude indicator: A series of rolling hash-marks that would tell him his pitch and bank positions. If he could just keep his nose up, and the velocity vector pegged squarely on the back of the flight deck, he'd be okay.

The hardest part of a carrier landing, he had recently discovered, was controlling your descent with the throttle, rather than the yoke. Maintaining a constant pitch to the plane was key, leaving thrust as the only option for regulating one's descent rate.

Glancing up to the carrier, he gulped hard as he took note of how, from this distance, the great ship appeared to be little more than a postage stamp floating in the ocean below. The thought that he now had to land on that floating flyspeck filled him with apprehension, and he felt the sudden urge to turn around and head back to the beautiful safety of dry land.

He quickly realized, of course, that this was not an option. If he was going to graduate and become an Eagle, he had to learn how to do this.

Besides, he didn't have enough fuel to make it back to shore, anyway.

Concentrating now on the ship before him, he picked up the glow of the Landing System signal. The "meatball," as air crews knew it, was responsible for confirming the proper descent path, and it now told him that he was right on the money.

Tightening his grip on the controls, he watched as the massive flight deck suddenly accelerated toward him, filling the Phantom's windscreen. With a swift motion, he shoved the throttle forward. If his hook caught a wire, then the arresting gear would stop him. If he missed, he would need that power to take off again and go around for another try.

He was abruptly tossed back into his seat by the force of the main landing gear impacting the deck, then thrown forward into his harness by the sudden deceleration of the wire dragging him to a stop.

Briefly gasping for breath, he reached up and gingerly rubbed his shoulders, gently massaging the sore spots where the harness had dug into his soft tissues.

"Ugh, this has 'bruise' written all over it." He lamented.

"_Hurk,_ uh-huh." Rufus squeaked, voicing his agreement on the issue. Getting tossed around inside his owner's pocket by the rough landing had been an experience in and of itself.

Momentarily turning his attention away from his hairless companion, Ron watched a flurry of deck crewmen secure his plane, and begin hauling it toward one of the massive elevators that ringed the flight deck. Seizing the moment, he reflected on what had just happened.

"_Not a snowman's chance in heck!"_ He thought silently to himself. _"No way I'll EVER get used to that."_

* * *

**Author's Notes:**

Okay, so Ron threw a lot of seemingly random names at us in the first segment. This isn't exactly something new for him, after all. So in the interest of understanding, let's take a minute to review:

The Rockwell B-1 Lancer that Ron mentions is a high-speed, multi-role bomber with nuclear capabilities. Thanks to its variable-swept wings, it is capable of breaking the sound barrier at low altitudes, and can carry a variety of ordinance, ranging from descent-retarded bombs, to cluster bombs, precision-guided bombs, cruise missiles, and strategic thermonuclear weapons.

The Boeing B-52 Stratofortress is a long-range, heavy strategic bomber that was first developed in the early 1950s. With a maximum service ceiling of 55,773 feet, a top speed of 650 miles per hour and a payload capacity of 30 tons, the B-52 is one of the most capable military airframes currently in service. At this time, the United States Air Force anticipates keeping the B-52 in active service until the year 2040, at which point the original airframes will be nearly 90 years old!

Although officially labeled the Northrop B-2 Spirit, this aircraft is better known as the Stealth Bomber. Capable of penetrating previously impenetrable defenses, and delivering precision-guided munitions onto high-value targets, the nuclear-capable B-2 has captured the public imagination in ways that few other aircraft ever have. Since its introduction in 1989, it has racked up one of the most impressive combat records in the USAF, flying countless missions into enemy territory without so much as a single scratch.

_McDonnell Douglas F-15 Eagle:_ First flown by the United States Air Force in July of 1972, the F-15 is an all-weather strike fighter with excellent handling and payload characteristics. Introduced to the Israeli arsenal in 1977, the F-15 has obtained an overall service record of 104 air-to-air victories with zero losses.

_McDonnell F-4 Phantom II:_ A legend in its own time, the McDonnell F-4 is one of the most widely used military aircraft in history. Flown by all branches of the American military and many of her allies, nearly 5,200 were built, and 1,100 of these airframes still remain in active service today.

Kudos to anyone who can guess the salvage yard where G.J. got their Phantoms. _(Grins mischievously.)_

Catch you all in the next chapter!

Later, gators…

_Nutzkie…_


	8. Calm Before the Storm

**Required Legal Mumbo-Jumbo:**

For the record, I don't own KP. The same goes for any characters, settings, descriptions or catch-phrases which you may or may not happen to recognize from the show. Any and all attempts to sue me will be met with severe disappointment. (Can't get blood from a turnip, folks.) Employees and their families are ineligible. Must be 21 or older. No purchase necessary. Void where prohibited. See store for details. Prosecutors will be violated. All rights reserved. So there!

* * *

**- Chapter Eight -**

If perfection in nature is what one seeks, then one need look no further than the beauty of a mountain sunset. Here, the Creator's palate is laid bare for all to see, with every color of the cosmic rainbow splashed across the celestial canvas. Throughout history, it's innumerable hues have inspired bards and poets, kings and counselors, and all manner of men, both great and small, to ponder the nature of their own existence.

For Kim Possible, however, it was simply the end of another day.

…Another day without Ron.

Watching the cosmic light show through her bedroom's picture window, she felt no inspiration, no deeper connection to the universe: Only the same emptiness and despair that had been her constant companions for all these torturous weeks.

She heaved a heavy sigh that seemed to come from every pore of her body, and glanced dejectedly toward the floor, seemingly disinterested in the colorful display now playing out before her. All the beauty and riches of the universe held nothing of desire for her. There was only one thing… one person… that her heart and soul yearned for.

Stepping over to her nightstand, she picked up the framed photograph, which had occupied this place of honor for nearly a year now. She stared at it intently, as if through sheer strength of will she could make the images it contained come to life, and step forward into the room.

The photo had come out fairly well, she had to admit, considering the atrocious lighting conditions inside the gym that night. But even with the darkened environment, the two figures depicted seemed to emit a radiant glow all their own. Together, they lit up the room, banishing any and all darkness from their presence.

The eight by ten glossy was a blow-up of a snapshot taken for the school yearbook on the night of their Junior Prom. Simply by coincidence, the photographer had aimed and released his shutter at the exact moment she and Ron shared their first kiss. It was a magical moment for them both: A moment which now stood frozen in time, captured forever on celluloid, an eternal reminder of the night both their lives changed forever.

Clutching the frame tightly against her chest, Kim returned to the window and stared out at the now quickly receding colors. She couldn't explain it, but somehow, deep down in farthest recesses of her soul, she knew Ron was out there… somewhere… alive. There was some sort of deep, spiritual connection that existed between them, and she knew she could sense his life force. It called to her from across the distance between them, assuring her of his continued existence.

Keeping the picture snug against her bosom, Kim placed one hand upon the windowpane, feeling the coolness of the glass flow through her fingers and into her palm. Blinking back a single tear, she sniffed lightly, and began to say a quiet prayer:

_"Ron… I don't know if you can hear me, but if you can, please come back to me. I don't know if it was something I said, or something I didn't say that made you leave me, but if it was, then I'm sorry. I'm more sorry than you will ever know. We both have our faults, my darling, and I may not have all the answers, but I do know that I love you, and that I can't live without you. Whatever our differences are, I know we can work through them, just as long as we're together."_

"_Wherever you are, I can feel that you are with me, and I know that you will always be in my heart. I love you and I need you, Ron. Please, baby... Come back to me."_

She prayed that somewhere, somehow, his soul had heard her.

* * *

The first hints of dawn filtered across the eastern sky, bringing life to an otherwise empty sea. The great, golden orb itself had yet to pierce the horizon, but its eminent arrival was announced by a thousand different shades of color, playing themselves out upon the tapestry of the darkened sky. Brilliant shades of blue, vermilion and magenta mixed with warm oranges and amber yellows to form a visual symphony that danced and reflected across the surface of the sea, making it difficult to tell where the earth left off and the heavens began. From across the depths of the cosmos, the light poured down, glinting off the wake of the great ship, mixing with the eerie glow of phosphorescent algae churned-up by its gargantuan propellers.

From its source 93 million miles distant, light flooded in through the gaping maw at the rear of the ship's hangar deck, filling the great space with light and infusing everything it touched with comforting warmth, including a lone figure, which now stood leaning against the railing, staring out across the vast emptiness of the open sea.

For this solitary individual, the cosmic ballet of color before him was not the current focus of his mind. Instead, his thoughts traveled to a distant place: A place beyond the horizon that he now found himself staring at so longingly… A small town, occupied by a very special soul.

Visions of this soul filled his mind more and more often these days. Visions of her infectious laughter, her indomitable spirit, and the way she could so easily be both a hero to many, and a friend to all. She was a constant presence for him. A looming specter that consumed his soul with a longing and a loneliness that made his very being ache.

So many times in the past month, he had wanted to reach out to her: To somehow make contact, even if for only a moment, to let her know he was okay, and to hear her angelic voice once again. He would have given anything for such an opportunity, but such actions would have jeopardized everything he had worked for up to this point, and there was far more at stake here than just his own ambitions. He was doing this for her as well: To improve his contributions to the team.

Deep down, he also suspected that on some psychological level, he was trying to make her proud of him, and prove himself worthy of her as well. As much as he may be willing to risk expulsion for his own desires, he couldn't deprive Kim of the benefits she would receive from his labors.

No, for now he would simply have to be content with the photograph that now adorned the small writing desk next to his bunk. It was an eight by ten glossy of Kim in her cheer uniform: A copy of the photo Drakken had defaced with a cheesy, hand-scribbled moustache during their encounter American Starmaker. It was the last thing he saw before going to sleep at night, and the first thing he saw when he woke up. He had even gone down to the reconnaissance department and had the boys in photo analysis produce a wallet-sized copy that now held a place of honor in the cockpit with him, taped to one of the display consoles. Somehow, seeing her face while on missions gave him a level of confidence and comfort in the air that he didn't otherwise enjoy.

She may be able to do anything, he had come to conclude, but she could also inspire those around her to reach the same levels of excellence. Her strength and optimism were contagious, in a very strange way, and he found himself drawing on that strength more and more each day. In her own special way, she had been sustaining him throughout this ordeal, and she continued to do so even now.

"_Please… try to understand, Kim…"_ he softly said to himself, staring out at the distant sunrise. _"I know this must be hard for you right now, but I'm doing this for us: To be the best friend and partner I can be… To be the partner I know you deserve." _

"_I love you more than life itself, and I'd never willfully do anything to hurt you. Stand firm in the knowledge that our bond is strong, and I'll be back with you again before long."_

* * *

Far from the mundane experience often depicted in movies and popular culture, breakfast can be an exciting affair for some people.

This holds especially true for families with multiple children.

The Possible household was no stranger to such concepts, as seldom a morning went by without some sort of incident involving a helicopter landing in the front yard, an unscheduled rocket launch, an emergency cranial bypass operation, or some sort of fusion experiment running amuck. Such adventure and mayhem was simply part of the daily routine in this most extraordinary of families.

This particular morning, however, had been somewhat quieter than usual. Jim and Tim had yet to blow-up and/or reconfigure any of the kitchen appliances, the medical center had not called, and patriarch James Possible had the day off. This wasn't to say, however, that everything was operating on normal frequencies. (Well, at least normal by most people's standards.)

Anne Possible favored her daughter with a concerned look as the younger redhead sat in the corner of the family's breakfast nook, silently picking at her eggs. She hadn't said so much as a word all morning, and had not even bothered to respond when her brothers had slipped a homemade whoopee cushion under her seat. Where Kim was concerned, this was definitely a sign of something wrong.

"So James," Anne finally said, taking a long pull from her coffee mug, "How's that new project for the space center coming along?"

She glanced over to her husband with a knowing smile and a wink. This was something that the two of them had discussed the night before, and the smile James shot her in return told her he knew exactly where she was going.

"Just peachy, honey." The elder Possible replied. "Construction of the prototype was completed last week, so we're ready for flight testing."

"So what's the newest toy, dad?" Jim enthusiastically asked. The twins were always interested in their father's latest projects, as they were the primary source of their own inspirations.

"Some sort of high-earth-orbit launch vehicle?" Tim added.

"No, I'm afraid it's nothing as fancy as that, boys." Their father informed them. "This is just a long-range transport craft for highly sensitive scientific payloads."

James put his hands behind his head and leaned wistfully back in his chair.

"Man, she's a real beaut." He sighed. "Climate controlled and pressurized cargo bay, acceleration dampeners, integrated power supply systems… Sure, she's not that fast, but with that range… wow! She could carry an entire plasma field coil experiment from here to Brussels and back again without so much as even having to stop and ask to use the bathroom."

"Hmmmm, sounds like I may have some competition for your affections." Anne quipped. "You said it was ready for testing?"

"That's right sweetie. It's all ready to go."

"So where do you plan on taking it?"

"Well, for an adequate shakedown cruise, it's gonna have to be someplace far away." James mused, placing a hand thoughtfully on his chin. "I was thinking that Japan might be a good choice."

This sentence immediately grabbed Kim's attention.

"_Mum-rmph_, really?" she asked, nearly choking on a mouthful of eggs. "You're flying to Japan?"

"Uh-huh," James replied nonchalantly, returning his gaze to his paper. "The thing is, in order to keep track of all the monitoring equipment, I'm gonna need four other people for a crew." He lowered his paper just enough to cast a knowing glance toward his daughter, and Kim suddenly realized that her mother and brothers were all smiling at her as well.

"I've already lined up three," James continued. "You wouldn't happen to be free today, would you?"

Finally catching on to the ruse, Kim fairly leapt out of her seat and enveloped both of her parents in a hug.

"Of course I'm free today!" She cried. "Thanks, guys… You have no idea how much you rock!"

"You're certainly welcome, Kimmie-cub." James replied sweetly. "Now get upstairs and get ready. We'll be leaving for the center in twenty minutes."

"Can do!" Kim called out, already racing up the stairs toward her attic bedroom. "And don't even think about leaving without me!"

"We won't." Anne called back.

"_We_ might." Tim said, playfully elbowing his brother, and earning a stern glare from his mother.

"Boys, boys… Don't make me make you two ride in the cargo bay." James mumbled under his breath.

* * *

"So here we are on Itchy Isle, home of the nuclear mosquitoes." A sarcastic voice echoed through the dank corridor. "Remind me again: Exactly _why_ are we here?"

"Because it's the basic rule of real estate, Shego." A raspy voice responded. "Location, location…"

"…Location. Yeah, I get it Doctor D." the green-hued villainess interjected. "But a deserted island with bugs so large they make a beeping noise when they back up? I mean, c'mon… Couldn't you find a better spot?"

"Not a chance, Shego." Drakken continued. "This island is perfectly positioned for my latest operation, and it already has most of the infrastructure I need as well."

"Ugh, so it has an abandoned Japanese airfield from World War Two. So what? It wasn't even on the winning side, for cryin' out loud!"

"Actually, it's a rather big what, thank-you very much." The mad megalomaniac shot back. "The airfield is crucial to my plan."

"Oy…" Shego sighed. "I just know I'm going to regret asking, but what's the scoop on operation 'Fly Now-Pray Later' anyway?"

"Simplicity itself, Shego." Drakken replied haughtily as the pair exited the underground command bunker they had been in, and walked across an open area toward a nearby hangar. "You are aware of the recent surge in trade between Asia and the west, aren't you?"

"Well doy! It's kinda hard to miss, what with all the 'Made in Taiwan' labels you see on everything these days."

"Exactly! A major percentage of global trade is now being conducted within the Pacific Rim, and with each passing month, the numbers only keep growing."

"Okay, so you've been reading the Wall Street Journal… Good on you. Now what does that have to do with world conquest?"

"Don't you see, Shego?" Drakken asked, turning to face his plasma-powered assistant. "This island is located directly along the major shipping lanes. Virtually all air and sea transport happens within easy reach of where we now stand."

"And so I ask again, what the heck does that have to do with us?"

"Nnnngh! Try to follow along, Shego. From this position, we can threaten global trade. The flow of international commerce will be under our control… And you know what that means, don't you?"

"That we'll finally be able to get some decent Chinese take-out?"

"Yes! No more putting up with cold chow mei… NO! THAT'S NOT IT! NARRRGH!!"

There was just something about aggravating the mad scientist that made Shego smile, but only on the inside, of course.

"The point, Shego," Drakken growled, finally managing to regain his composure, "is that if people want their precious consumer goods and commodities, then they'll have to deal with me."

"And you're gonna demand some sort of 'broker's fee' for arranging the transaction?" Shego asked rhetorically.

"That's the general idea." Drakken grinned.

"So that just leaves the one problem, then." Shego responded, already thinking two steps ahead of her employer.

"What problem where?" Drakken nervously stammered.

"The 'how to project adequate force' problem?" Shego sarcastically quipped.

"Already got it covered." Drakken grinned again, turning to walk into the hangar. Shego dutifully followed, truly curious for once as to what the wanna-be dictator had up his sleeve.

She wasn't expecting the sight that greeted her.

Along both walls of the hangar stood rows of odd-looking aircraft. Their abbreviated delta-wings and oversized tails made them look somewhat like steroid-enriched lawn darts, and Shego suddenly found herself struggling for words to describe them.

"Mig Twenty-Ones?" she finally managed to ask. "Aren't they a little antiquated?"

"Please, Shego… They were top-of-the-line for their day."

"And that day was in the 1960s!" Shego shouted. "Just what exactly are we trying to do here? Threaten world markets or defend Hanoi?"

"_Gah…_ Have you seen the sticker prices on the new models, Shego?" Drakken asked, returning Shego's shout. "And I'm still paying off the last lair that Kim Possible blew up! You have no idea what that did to my credit score!"

"And you have no idea what it did to my manicure." The pale-skinned sidekick retorted. "So how are we going to go about all of this anyways?"

"The henchmen have been in training for several weeks now," Drakken replied, moving over to a computer console in the corner of the hangar. "So now it's time for phase two."

"Which is?"

"Live fire training." Drakken replied flatly. "We need to find a simple, unsuspecting target for my men to test their skills on."

"Sounds like a good approach to things." Shego reluctantly admitted. "So where do we find this unwitting clay pigeon."

"Hmmm… I'll know it when I see it." Was Drakken's only response.

Just then, an alert tone sounded throughout the hangar, attracting the attention of all those who were present.

"Intruder alert?" Shego inquired, already suspecting the answer.

"Indeed." Drakken informed her. "Someone has strayed into our airspace."

"Well then, let's identify our new neighbor." Shego responded, moving to the controls next to her employer. A few quick motions brought up an image of the approaching craft.

"It looks like a transport craft of some sort…" Shego commented. "Somewhat small… Markings seem to be governmental, but not military… Could be an experimental design from the looks of it."

"Zoom in!" Drakken commanded. "Try to identify the occupants."

The blue-skinned scientist's grin grew into something that could only be described as "wickedly-wide" as the close-up picture came into focus.

"Kim Possible…" he hissed through his oversized teeth. "Target acquired."

* * *

"Just two more weeks, Rufus… Just two more weeks."

"Hurk… Oh brother."

For the newly anointed lieutenant and his friend, boredom was back with a vengeance. For the past few days they had been flying a seemingly endless string of reconnaissance missions in an area of the Pacific Ocean, just a few hundred miles east of the Philippines. Land and satellite-based radar had been picking-up an unusually heavy amount of traffic in the area over the past few weeks, and they were there to sniff around and see what they could learn.

This was the final stage of his training: The home stretch. Although not officially an Eagle yet, he was considered a probationary member of the organization and had been attached to a squadron based aboard the Thor: The Eagle's very own nuclear aircraft carrier. This was somewhat of an honor in itself, as his new unit was one of the most elite in the entire organization. The Red Tails, as they were known, were renown as the best-trained and most skilled squadron that the Eagles had, and they were seen as the go-to guys when failure wasn't an option. Identifiable by their distinctive insignia, the twin red tails, each bearing the image of an eagle's head superimposed over a thunderbolt, clearly proclaimed their presence and identity to all those who were nearby.

Glancing over his shoulder at the sleek airframe behind him, Ron couldn't help but smile. After all, the F-14/D Super Tomcat was one sexy looking airframe. G.J. had acquired several of the sleek interceptors after the U.S. Navy had decommissioned its last two squadrons a few months before. And as was usually the case when G.J. went on a shopping spree, they felt compelled to trick things out a little bit.

The onboard AN/APG-71 radar had been upgraded to improve its range and resolution, and there had been a 64-bit, digitally encrypted, multi-phase communication system installed. Ron had to admit that he didn't really know what all of that meant, but it all sounded really cool.

The biggest modification, however, had been with the engines. The Tomcat now featured a series of slats, just inside of its intakes, that could be closed off at high altitude. Once the intakes were sealed in this way, a liquid oxidizer would then be added to the fuel mixture, allowing the engines to still burn without the benefit of air.

It didn't take a rocket scientist to see the point of this new design: The Tomcat's twin turbofan engines now doubled as rockets. This gave the Tomcat exo-atmospheric capability, and with that came sub-orbital flight patterns, and the ability to be anywhere in the world within half-an-hour of take-off. Global Justice now had a truly global reach.

The sudden click of his nose wheel slipping into place on the deck catapult brought his mind back to the task at hand. He was part of a three-ship flight this day, operating under the call sign of "Reflex." Their task was to gather electronic intelligence regarding activity in the area and return to the ship when finished. As the blast deflector behind him was raised into place, he glanced over his left shoulder to see his two companions being loaded onto the number three and four catapults behind him.

"Reflex One" this day was an E-2 Hawkeye, with its distinctive turboprop engines and large radar dish mounted above its fuselage. Charged with monitoring all airborne and sea-borne traffic during the mission, it was the slowest member of the group, and therefore would serve as the pacesetter.

"Reflex Two" was an EA-6B Prowler: An electronic warfare and surveillance aircraft that would monitor and record all radio traffic in the vicinity. Between these two craft, if anything moved or talked, it would be recorded for analysis.

He was "Reflex Three," although officially he was designated as the flight leader. His position would be slightly above and about a half-mile behind the others, keeping watch over his charges like an ever-vigilant sheepdog, ready to swoop down and defend his comrades should they fall under attack. It all sounded quite exciting on the surface, but the sad truth was that no one had ever molested such a flight, and so the hours in the cockpit dragged on with nothing to do but look out at an empty ocean and wait.

He reached up and grabbed the overhead "towel bar" hand grabs as he watched his comrades in arms launch from their positions behind him. As much as he would rather be somewhere else right now, he had to focus himself on the task at hand. A final check of the computers confirmed that everything was in order. The highly-advanced aircraft would actually launch itself, relegating him to the role of passenger for the first few seconds: A passenger on a 61,000 pound missile.

His head snapped back and he was plastered to his seat as the catapult fired, hurling the Tomcat down the flight deck, accelerating him to a speed of over 100 miles per hour in less than four seconds. Pitching up sharply as deck fell away, he felt the landing gear retract into the great bird's belly, snapping securely into place. He sighed deeply as he slowly turned to join formation with his comrades.

"Just another fun-filled day at the office, huh Rufus?"

A soft, snoring sound could be heard emanating from his pocket.

* * *

For what was essentially a glorified cargo plane, this was actually quite comfortable.

The Middleton Space Center's newest acquisition came replete with many amenities. Overstuffed, recliner-like seats were fitted throughout the spacious cockpit, which was enclosed by a large, teardrop-shaped canopy, allowing for excellent visibility in all directions. To the rear of the cockpit there was a mini-fridge; well stocked with cold beverages for the occupants to enjoy. The interior was air conditioned and quiet, and the ride was smooth. All in all, the experience bore a greater resemblance to a ride in a private jet then it did to travel on a commercial transport.

For most of the Possible family, this seemed more like a vacation than anything else. James Possible sat in the pilot's position with his wife at his side. The twins sat immediately behind their parents, gazing out at the view, giving the appearance of this being nothing more than a Sunday drive in the family station wagon.

The lone exception to this Rockwellian image could be found on the bench seat at the rear of the cockpit. For her, this was no Sunday drive to the park: This was serious business.

As the hours idled away, Kim remained focused on what she was here to do. Although she still didn't have an exact fix on the location of the super-secret ninja school Ron had attended during the previous spring, Wade had managed to narrow it down to a relatively small area. Once on the ground, she likely wouldn't find much difficulty in locating it herself. Then, it would be time to kick some ninja butts and take some ninja names.

A heavy scowl crossed her face as she thought about the young, lithesome ninja who had taken such a liking to Ron during their brief encounters. If she'd had anything to do with this, Kim thought, then the Japanese girl was going to get a first-hand demonstration of all of her 16 styles of Kung Fu.

And once that was completed, she'd make-up a few more styles for good measure. After all, nobody ever accused Kim Possible of not being thorough.

As she sat alone in the back, stewing in her own thoughts, her obviously foul mood was not lost on her mother. After rearing three children, Dr. Anne Possible could always tell when something was troubling one of her offspring. She was about to say something comforting when she was abruptly interrupted by Tim's concerned voice.

"Uhhh, guys… We've got company."

All eyes swung to the right side of the aircraft as the form of several distinct silhouettes could be seen approaching through the cloud deck below them.

"Who are they?" Anne asked with a twinge of concern evident in her voice.

"I don't know," Tim replied, "but I don't think it's the welcoming committee."

"And you don't think that because?" Anne inquired.

"Maybe because they're packing Atolls."

"Atolls?" Kim asked with a raised eyebrow.

"Short-range air-to-air missiles." Tim explained.

"Soviet-built copies of the American Sidewinder." Jim added. "We're working on our own version at home."

"Nice to see you tweebs have a hobby." Kim quipped. "I don't suppose you brought it along, did you?"

"Nah… The prototype's not ready for testing yet." Jim explained.

"Not for another week or so." His brother added.

"Swell." Kim sighed. "So daddy… What sorts of weapons does this thing have?"

"It doesn't, Kimmie-cub."

"It doesn't?"

"Hey, it's a transport, all right! We never thought it would see combat!"

"Double swell." Kim groused, suddenly feeling very vulnerable. "So do we have anything to use defensively?"

"Well, there is one thing that might do it." James pondered aloud.

"We're all open to suggestions right now." Kim observed.

"Well you see, this might not exactly be a war bird," James pointed out, "but that doesn't mean that your old man didn't build a few surprises into the design. This bird may be big and slow, but she can turn on a dime."

"You're the pilot." Kim noted. "Show us what you've got, daddy."

"Yeah, dad!"

"Let's ream these dudes!"

"Go get 'em, dear."

"Okay then… If you say so." James said, smiling at his incredibly supportive family. "Everybody hang on tight… This could get gnarly."

* * *

Oh the exciting life of a fighter pilot…

Oh the glory, the prestige, the fame…

…The boredom so thick you could serve it with a spatula.

There were times when Ron had to wonder just what the heck all of those Hollywood filmmakers were thinking. All of the high-octane, action-packed, thrill-filled movies: Just what were they basing these things on, anyway?

Certainly not anything that he was involved with, that much was for sure.

For the past five hours, he had been flying the exact same mission that he had been flying everyday for more than a week. Hour after hour, staring out at empty sea and sky, it was amazing that he wasn't seeing open water in his dreams these days. They had already been through an in-flight refueling, and were now entering the home stretch. Only an hour to go, and then it was back to all the comforts of home: "Carrier-sweet-carrier," as he liked to call it.

His thoughts were just starting to drift toward images of a hot meal in the galley and a warm bunk when the radio suddenly crackled to life.

"Flight leader, this is Reflex Two… Be advised, we're picking up some unusual com traffic up here."

"Copy that, Reflex Two." Ron replied, cueing his mike. "Can you elaborate further? 'Unusual' is kinda vague."

"Roger that… Patching transmission through. Stand by."

After a few moments of static, a clear voice came over the speaker mounted inside Ron's helmet: A voice that sounded vaguely familiar to him.

"_Calling anyone who can hear me! This is Kilo-Papa-Fiver-One-Fiver! I am an unarmed cargo craft that is under attack from multiple unidentified contacts! Request immediate assistance! Over!"_

The mystery voice certainly seemed frantic to him. As someone who had been frantic himself on many occasions, he could recognize that state of mind when he heard it. He knew this person needed help, but to break formation and leave his companions unprotected would be a breach of his orders, and would likely result in his expulsion from the program. After all of his time and hard work, he would have nothing to show for it all: Just another failure and a dream of what might have been.

This was certainly a dilemma, he told himself as he considered his options. And all the while, he still had the nagging suspicion that he somehow knew the owner of that voice. It had just seemed too familiar to be his imagination.

"_And what a weird call sign, too."_ He thought to himself. _"What the heck is that supposed to mean, anyway?"_

Thinking quickly, he began to run through the phonetic alphabet he had been taught early in his training. Many letters sound alike, the instructor had pointed out, and so to avoid confusion, pilots gave them names instead.

"_Let's see now…"_ He thought, ticking through the list. _"There's Alfa… Bravo… Charlie… Delta…"_

Several seconds later, he reached the point he was interested in.

"_Kilo Papa"_ He pondered. _"'Kilo' and 'Papa.' 'K' and 'P'…"_

His eyes flew wide open as recognition struck him like a thunderbolt from the blue.

He most definitely knew the owner of that voice!

* * *

**Author's Notes:**

_MiG-21 Fishbed:_ Built by the Mikoyan-Gurevich Design Bureau, the MiG-21 is a small, fast interceptor that is still in service with several countries even today, nearly 50 years after its first flight. With a top speed of Mach two, it is still faster than many modern interceptors.

The Fishbed saw its first service in the North Vietnamese Air Force during the Vietnam War. Although fewer than two dozen of these planes were ever flown by the North Vietnamese, they still managed to play a pivotal role in the development of the air war in south-east Asia.

_Thor:_ For those of you who are up on your ancient Nordic mythology, you'll probably get this right away. According to the Vikings, Thor was the God of thunder. As the blacksmith of the gods, it was his pounding of hot iron upon his anvil that created the sound of thunderclaps. This is why most images of Thor portray him as holding a hammer.

_F-14/D Super Tomcat:_ The plane that was immortalized by the movie "Top Gun." An upgraded version of the legendary naval fighter, the "D" model featured avionics and weapons upgrades, as well as improved engines, with the original Pratt & Whitney TF30s being replaced by more powerful General Electric F110-400s. One of the most versatile and dominant naval fighters ever developed, it suffered from a high cost of maintenance, and on September 22, 2006, the last two Tomcat Squadrons, (VF-31 and VF-213), were officially disbanded.

The hybrid jet/rocket engines are a creation of my own imagination, although I sometimes wonder just how feasible such a design might be. _(Why I don't work for NASA, I'll never know.)_

_AN/APG-71:_ An advanced radar system built by Hughes Aircraft, this system has multiple modes in both pulse and Doppler configurations. With an effective range of nearly 200 miles, it provides an excellent early warning system against potential attackers.

_E-2 Hawkeye:_ A propeller-powered anachronism in the modern jet age, the Hawkeye belongs to a category of aircraft known as AWACS. (Airborne Warning And Control Systems) By carrying aloft a large radar array, it can detect both air and surface based contacts up to 1,000 miles away. Other AWACS aircraft include the Boeing E-3 Sentry and the Soviet-built Beriev A-50.

_EA-6B Prowler:_ Built by Grumman, (builder of the Tomcat and Hawkeye), the Prowler is an electronic warfare variant of the A-6 Intruder carrier bomber that first flew during the conflict in Vietnam. Designed to both monitor and jam enemy communications and radar defenses, the Prowler is a valuable asset above an increasingly technological battlefield.

_Atoll Missile:_ Tim hit it right on the head, here. Dubbed the AA-2 Atoll by NATO forces, the Vympel K-13 was a heat-seeking air-to-air missile. It was reverse engineered by Soviet designers from a captured AIM-9 Sidewinder that was accidentally acquired on September 28, 1958. This was the consequence of an incident where a Sidewinder fired by an American F-86 Saber struck a MiG-17 without exploding. The resulting impact impaled the missile inside the MiG's fuselage, and the Soviet-built fighter returned to base with its impromptu hitchhiker still in place.

First deployed in 1961, the Atoll is a testament to the resourcefulness and skill-level of Soviet engineers.

_Phonetic Alphabet:_ Just as Ron said, many letters of the English alphabet sound alike. (i.e. "A," "K," "J," etc.) To prevent confusion, the phonetic alphabet was developed as a means of giving each letter a distinctive sound. Commonly used by military and law enforcement agencies, and air traffic controllers, the modified alphabet is as follows:

_Alfa, Bravo, Charlie, Delta, Echo, Foxtrot, Golf, Hotel, India, Juliet, Kilo, Lima. Mike, November, Oscar, Papa, Quebec, Romeo, Sierra, Tango, Uniform, Victor, Whiskey, X-ray, Yankee, Zulu._

Numbers are expressed with each digit being identified individually. "Nine" becomes "Niner" in this system to prevent confusion with the number five. "0" is always expressed as "Zero" to prevent confusion with the letter "O."

Well, it looks like things are getting hairy once again for our friends. Kim's in trouble and Ron is the only one in position to help. Will he be willing to discard everything he's worked for and jump into the fight? (I suspect most of us already know the answer to this question, but finding out will still be fun, won't it?)

And what about Kim? Will she and Ron finally be reunited? (I ain't sayin' nothin' on this point.)

Stay tuned for the next pulse-pounding installment!

_Nutzkie…_


	9. Crunch Time

**Required Legal Mumbo-Jumbo:**

For the record, I don't own KP. The same goes for any characters, settings, descriptions or catch-phrases which you may or may not happen to recognize from the show. Any and all attempts to sue me will be met with severe disappointment. (Can't get blood from a turnip, folks.) Employees and their families are ineligible. Must be 21 or older. No purchase necessary. Void where prohibited. See store for details. Prosecutors will be violated. All rights reserved. So there!

* * *

**- Chapter Nine -**

_"Mister Doctor P.?"_

Ron almost couldn't believe what he had just heard. It seemed absolutely impossible, but the frantic voice on the other end of that radio transmission was most definitely Kim's father. A thousand questions instantly flooded Ron's mind, but none of them was greater than the question of what to do next.

"Reflex One this is Reflex Three, what's the position of that contact?" he called out over the open com link.

"Copy that... Contact is bearing zero-seven-niner degrees. Range is one-two-eight nautical miles." came the professionalistic reply.

Demons of conflict were now waging all-out war inside of Ron's head. Either way, there was so much at stake for him. On one hand, ditching the escort mission and jumping into the fight looming just over the horizon would constitute disobeying a direct order, and would almost certainly cost him his commission. On the other hand, Kim's dad was definitely in trouble out there, and who knew what would happen if he held his position and did nothing. After all, wasn't helping Kim one of the main reasons he had enlisted in the first place?

It all came down to a simple choice in the end: A choice between the Eagles, and Kim.

_...Well that was no choice at all._

Kicking the rudder pedals hard right, he banked into a sharp turn, and shoved the throttle to the firewall. Thrust nozzles flared wide open as afterburners engaged, dumping raw fuel into his exhaust. Within moments, his thrust had doubled to nearly 50,000 pounds, and he felt himself pinned to his seat as the sudden burst of power sent the Tomcat surging forward.

At Mach 0.7, the graceful glider-like wings began to sweep back, and by Mach 0.95 the image of an elegant sailplane had been transformed into a sleek, delta-winged dragster. Only a few seconds later, the entire airframe shuddered as it was consumed by the force of a sonic boom. He was through the sound barrier, and on his way into battle.

"Reflex Three! Reflex Three!" the call came in over the radio. "Break off! Repeat, break off and return to formation!"

Ron didn't even bother to answer. He knew there weren't any potential threats in the immediate area. If there were, then the Hawkeye would have already spotted them. And besides, they were close enough to home now that the Thor could launch another CAP patrol if it was needed.

Instead, he simply clicked the radio off. He needed to concentrate on the task at hand, and having frantic radio chatter blaring in his ear wasn't going to help much on that front. Eagerly, he checked his radarscope.

He could see individual craft on the scope at this range, and he briefly considered launching one of the four AIM-54 Phoenix missiles that he was carrying. With a 150-mile range, the Phoenix was well within its striking distance by this point.

This idea was quickly discarded, however, once he considered that he really didn't know what he was shooting at yet. There were several contacts to choose from, and at least one of them was friendly. Without being able to tell friend from foe, there was a distinct risk that he might destroy the one craft he was intending to protect.

No, he couldn't take the risk, Ron quickly concluded. There was only one way to approach this sitch. He would have to close within visual range and positively identify his targets. Then, and only then, could he engage the enemy, whomever that might be.

Looking quickly for something to occupy the next few minutes, his hands found their way to a section of the controls that he had been dying to try out. One of the many modifications that the Eagles had made to this aircraft was the application of a special transmutable paint. By using pre-programmed patterns, there were over a dozen different styles of situational camouflage that could be applied at a moments notice.

There were camo patterns for artic conditions, for jungle, for grasslands and desert environments. There was dark-blue paint for naval missions, a general-purpose gray, and a special nighttime paint scheme known by the Tomcat's crews as "Black Cat."

The pattern Ron was looking for, however, wasn't to be found in any official manual. Quickly punching a special code into the small keypad, the sides of the Tomcat's fuselage was suddenly adorned with his own custom nose art.

It had taken several favors and a few under-the-table payments to some well-placed individuals, but Ron's bird now sprouted artwork as unique as himself: The smiling, buck-toothed face of a naked mole rat, clad in old-fashioned aviators garb was flanked by a pair of golden wings. Immediately below this unusual image, bold lettering proudly proclaimed the craft's identity: "Sky Rat."

Ron's grin grew even wider as he punched in another code. Nose art wasn't the only cosmetic modification that had been installed under his ever-watchful direction.

Within moments, both of his wingtips were emblazoned with a neon-green oval surrounding a black field. Centered within this cacophony of color was a bold pair of letters, displayed in green and yellow Vipagnorgialla script. Just two simple letters that conveyed the incredible strength of soul and spirit that lay behind this craft, and it's pilot: "KP."

Ron smiled yet again when he thought of just what a kick Kim would get out of seeing her logo displayed in such a manner. All such thoughts were pushed aside, however, by a single glance toward the radar. He was rapidly approaching visual range with his contacts, and then it would be time to engage.

Moving quickly over the controls, he switched the radar from vertical scan to bore sight mode. Now instead of simply looking for contacts, the radar was hunting for targets, and Ron could only assume that there would soon be plenty of those to choose from.

This was crunch time: The moment when all of his training would be put to the ultimate test. This wasn't some exercise, or a drill using unmanned drones as targets. He was about to take his bird to war, and it was upon his skill and courage alone, that the final outcome would rest.

* * *

As family trips went, Dr. James Possible had seen better.

Not that such trips were ever a picnic, (even the ones that actually involved a picnic), but this was kicking things up a notch.

The renowned rocket scientist now found himself in a slow, lumbering transport, family in tow, trying frantically to extricate himself from a roiling furball of lightning-fast, ex-Soviet interceptors.

He had discovered that the transport he had designed was actually quite nimble for a craft of its size, to the point of surprising even himself. He could out-turn and evade the Migs whenever one of them made an attack run, but this strategy wouldn't work forever. With each turn he made, he lost precious air speed, bringing him ever closer to a stall.

And as any aeronautical designer worth his salt can tell you, once you stall… you're dead.

"Heh… All in all, still not quite as bad as the last family trip to Florida, wouldn't you say?" he jokingly asked, trying to keep the mood light.

"You mean the one where the boys got into the fight over that… _errrrrgh…_ Nutty Buddy bar?" Anne responded, grunting through the strain of another sharp turn.

"The infamous 'Bloody Nutty Buddy Bar' incident?" Kim asked from her place in the back. "Ugh… Don't remind me. Don't _ever_ remind me!"

"Yeah, as much as we enjoy reliving our past fights…" Jim broke in.

"…THERE'S ANOTHER ONE ON OUR TAIL!!" Tim completed.

Acting on instinct, James pushed the lumbering transport into a hard, left turn. His heart sank when he felt the very craft he had built suddenly shudder and bottom out: The tell-tale sign of a stall.

"He has us." Tim stated morosely, his voice barely more than a whisper.

For the occupants of the tiny cabin, the events that happened next seemed to transpire in slow motion. Anne Possible reached across the center console to grab her husband's hand. Kim lunged forward from her seat and enveloped both of her brothers in a bear hug: an embrace that they, for once, didn't squirm away from.

For a moment that seemed frozen in time, the young family simply clung to each other, waiting for the end to come. Then, an enormous concussion swept over them.

For the longest of moments, a deathly pall of silence filled the cabin. It seemed as if not even a solitary breath existed that could break the reign of utter nothingness. Then, daring to tempt fate in his own way, Jim broke the silence.

"Are we dead?" he asked, hesitantly.

"Man, I hope not." Tim answered, warily opening one eye. "Because if we are, then heaven is pretty whacked."

One by one, the family each opened their eyes and took stock of themselves. A precursory inspection revealed that everything seemed to be in order. There were no injuries apparent, and the plane seemed to be fully intact. But if that was the case, then what the heck had just happened?

"Th… That wasn't an explosion just now, was it?" Tim inquired, starting to catch on to the sitch.

"Yeah," Jim agreed. "It felt more like a…"

"…Sonic boom." James broke in, completing his son's sentence. "The shockwave is distinctive. I've seen enough of those things at the space center to know one when I hear it."

"Ohhhh-kaaaaayyy…" Kim said warily, still clutching her siblings. "So if that was a sonic boom, then who and where did it come from?"

"Ohmigosh… Look!" Anne suddenly shrieked, pointing to a spot in the sky ahead of them.

There, in the distance, an aircraft could be seen screaming straight up toward the heavens: A large, delta-winged bird that was most definitely not a Mig.

"Well hello there, and who in the heck are you?" James Possible pondered aloud in shock.

* * *

It can be truly amazing, sometimes, when your senses start to play tricks on you: Like when you step off a ship after a long time at sea, and can still feel the motion of the waves beneath you. In such situations, the discontinuity between what your mind knows and your senses tell you can be unnerving to say the least.

Another example is when you are flying at an altitude of 40,000 feet and traveling at two-and-a-half times the speed of sound. Your mind knows full well that you're screaming through the atmosphere at nearly 1,800 miles per hour, but the sensation is one of being perfectly motionless. A person is quickly overcome with the feeling of being suspended from the heavens by a cosmic thread, the earth turning slowly beneath them. There is no sense of velocity or time: Only serene peace and quiet tranquility.

As for Ron, such thoughts of Zen-like serenity couldn't be farther from his mind at this time. The radar blips that he had been watching so intently through his scope were now coming into view on the horizon, and the story they told sent a chill down his spine.

The transport was boxed in on all sides, and apparently on the verge of stalling out. As if that wasn't bad enough, one of the attackers had just taken a firing position behind its helpless prey. There were only seconds to act, and no time to think. It was gut-check time!

Turning toward the enemy formation and plunging into a shallow dive, Ron soon recognized the shape of the MiG-21s from one of the textbooks he read early in his training. For half an instant, he wondered if there was an air show in the area, but dismissed the idea just as quickly. Air show performances didn't involve mock attacks on aircraft that clearly weren't in on the joke.

Pickling off one of his Phoenix missiles, he targeted the lead attacker. He silently prayed that he wasn't too late as he pulled the trigger, and watched the million-dollar weapon streak away toward its target. Moments later, the small interceptor disintegrated in a fireball, never having known what hit it.

Pressing the advantage of surprise, he kept his throttle forward, and followed-up his attack by flying straight through the enemy formation at full-speed. Stunned by both the unexpected loss of their comrade and the sudden, booming fly-by, the Migs broke formation and scattered in all directions: A rookie mistake. Ron smiled as he boomed past the transport and pulled up into a near vertical climb.

_"These dudes are rank amateurs."_ He thought to himself. _"This is gonna be easier than coloring inside the lines."_

Continuing to pull back on the stick, Ron came hard over-the-top and rolled back into an upright position as he dived down once again onto the now-regrouping formation of Migs. Blasting through the formation as he had before, the entire group was thrown into confusion. One Mig was flipped onto its back by the force of the Tomcat's jet wash, and was sent careening into the tail of its wingman. Both pilots ejected as their stricken craft plummeted toward earth, trailing fire and debris in their wakes.

_"Three kills and only one shot so far. I'd most def call that booyah-worthy."_ Ron smiled to himself.

Now breaking hard left, he turned back toward the transport, the force of six-and-a-half Gs plastering him to his seat. He could feel his flight suit inflate around his lower extremities like a giant blood-pressure cuff before the pressure waned, and he released the turn.

That's when his face fell once again.

Another Mig had fallen into position behind the transport, and he was too far out of position to immediately do anything. He could maneuver for a shot, but that would take time: Precious seconds that he didn't have.

If he could get the Mig to turn right, then he could get a shot off without much difficulty. The question then, of course, was how to accomplish that. If he could get the transport to turn right, the Mig would almost certainly follow, but that would mean making radio contact, and breaking the vow of anonymity that he had taken when he first signed up.

_"Ohhhh... What in the name of Pop-Pop Porter's patootie am I getting worked-up about?"_ He silently chided himself. _"My commission was toast the moment I broke formation. I ain't got nothin' to loose right now."_

"Rufus!" Ron called out to his beloved pet. "I need an open channel... Stat! No encryption!"

Ron watched intently as a small, pink blur shot out from a pocket on his flight suit and raced to the digital radio set. After a brief flurry of activity, he flashed an enthusiastic "thumbs-up" to his human, and Ron knew they were good to go.

"BREAK RIGHT, DOCTOR P.!" he shouted into the helmet-mounted microphone.

It wasn't half-a-second before the transport complied, with the Mig dutifully following suit. Ron quickly seized the opportunity, and fired one of the two AIM-7 Sparrow missiles the Tomcat carried slung underneath its belly. Flying itself down the Tomcat's invisible radar beam, the Sparrow buried itself into the Mig's fuselage, just behind the cockpit, and detonated. The resulting blast tore the Mig cleanly in two, sending both halves hurtling toward an impact with the earth far below.

"_Man, that was close."_ He thought to himself.

* * *

"_Man, that was close."_ Kim thought to herself.

The preceding exchange had happened so quickly that no one quite knew what to make of it. The radio call, the turn, looking over their shoulders to see their pursuer swatted from the sky like an uncoordinated June bug: It had all transpired so fast that the events seemed to blur together, morphing into a single, unintelligible occurrence.

It was Anne who finally broke the awkward silence by posing a question that sent everyone's thinking into overdrive.

"Did that voice seem familiar to anyone but me?" she asked in a confused tone.

"Yeeeeah… It kinda _did,_ now that you mention it." Jim responded.

"And for that matter, how did he know _my_ name?" James added.

For several moments, the entire family pondered these points. The sitch had certainly been bizarre enough up until this point, but now it was a bona-fide nine point seven on the weirdness scale.

Any further ruminations on the topic, however, were pushed aside when Anne Possible's astonished gasp drew everyone's attention upward.

There, just a few feet above them, was their unexpected escort, cruising casually along in an inverted position. The Plexiglas canopies of the two aircraft were mere inches apart, revealing every detail of their respective interiors.

Kim stared intently upward, seeing her own shocked expression reflected in the tinted visor of the pilot's helmet. With every inch of himself covered by clothing and equipment, he appeared to be more machine than man; a faceless, soulless drone that had just saved their hides from oblivion.

She carefully studied the featureless face before her, so strong in her focus that she let out a startled yelp when a small, pink blob fell free and landed on the inside of the canopy with a thump.

"_Rufus?"_ the entire family stammered in unison.

Then, the last thing that any of them had ever expected to see transpired right before their very eyes.

The pilot who now hung suspended above them, slowly and deliberately reached up to his concealed face. His every move seemed to play out in a frame-by-frame sequence as he gently pulled the oxygen mask from his cheeks, allowing it to rest loosely underneath his chin. Another sloth-like movement lifted the visor of his helmet, revealing a pair of chocolate brown eyes and a faint smattering of freckles.

Kim desperately wanted to scream, but found herself unable to speak, unable to even breathe, her entire body being consumed by a mind-numbing wave of shock. After all of her efforts, after all the countless hours of searching, after all the time she had spent tracking down even the smallest lead, it was Ron who had found her. He was right there, suspended from his harness, just a few feet away.

A quick shove of the stick sent Sky Rat into an aileron roll that brought the sleek fighter into position along side the transport. Finding himself once again in an upright position, Ron waited a moment for the excess blood to drain from his head. Then, he said the first thing that came to his mind.

"Everybody okay over there?"

There was no reply. The only response he received was a quintet of stunned, wide-eyed stares. The family was clearly having trouble believing what they were seeing, and to be honest, at this moment he found it hard to blame them. He was finding it difficult to believe himself, after all. Up until this point, he had only heard the voice of Kim's father. Never in a million years would he have expected to find the entire family onboard what appeared to be the Middleton Space Center's newest toy.

"Uhhhh, I said _hell-looooooo…_" he prodded, trying to provoke some sort of a response.

"Rrr… Ro… Ron?" Kim finally managed to stammer, her mind not yet willing to believe what her eyes were seeing. Ron was seated in what she could only describe as the most menacing-looking aircraft she had ever seen, with a pair of blood-red tails and a large shark's mouth painted on its nose. Ron himself was wearing all the gear of a combat pilot, complete with a helmet that was painted in a stylized version of the mad dog mask he wore during his time on the school cheer squad. Insignia patches on his shoulder indicated membership in some sort of combat unit, although from this distance she couldn't make out anything specific.

"You all right, KP?" Ron asked again, a twinge of concern evident in his voice.

"Ron? But… how… I mean… what… wha… WHERE THE HELL HAVE YOU BEEN?!" she suddenly shouted, startling everyone sitting within earshot.

"DO YOU EVEN REALIZE WHAT I'VE BEEN GOING THROUGH THESE LAST MONTHS?! YOU HAD ME WORRIED SICK! I'VE PRACTICALLY BEEN TEARING MY HAIR OUT LOOKING FOR YOU! AND ALL OF IT JUST SO YOU COULD RUN OFF AND PRETEND YOU'RE TOM CRUISE OR SOMETHING? WHAT THE HELL WERE YOU THINKING?!"

"I… I was just try… trying to improve myself." Ron stuttered, thoroughly stunned by Kim's explosive reaction. "I wanted to… you know… make you proud of me."

"OH, I SEE! SO THIS WAS JUST ANOTHER PATHETIC ATTEMPT TO JOIN THE FOOTBALL TEAM, WASN'T IT?! FOR CRYIN' OUT LOUD, RON! WHAT PART OF 'I LOVE YOU' CAN'T YOU GET THROUGH YOUR THICK SKULL OF YOURS! I DON'T WANT A FOOTBALL STAR OR A FIGHTER JOCK! I WANT YOU!"

"I… I just thought that…"

"NO, YOU WEREN'T THINKING, WERE YOU?! GOD RON, YOU HAVE NO IDEA WHAT YOU'VE PUT ME THROUGH! ALL THESE WEEKS OF NOT KNOWING WHERE YOU WERE, OR WHETHER YOU WERE OKAY! NOT EVEN KNOWING IF YOU WERE ALIVE OR… OR… or…"

Her voice suddenly trailed off, unable to complete that final sentence. The emotional baggage that she had been carrying throughout her entire ordeal was finally proving too great a load to bear.

Ron could only sit in stunned silence. Kim's reaction was, after all, something that he had been completely unprepared for. Sure, he had expected her to miss him while he was gone, and maybe even be a little tweaked that he had run off the way that he had. But never… never in a million years… would he have ever expected her to simply go to pieces in the way that she had. Her response to his sudden absence exceeded anything that he would have ever anticipated, and he suddenly began to suspect that their relationship meant far more to her then he had ever thought before.

Deeply moved by the sight of his lifelong friend in tears, he softly said the only thing that he could think of in this sitch:

"_I'm here now."_

Kim's entire body shuddered as she buried her face into her hands and heaved a violent sob. Ron was right, after all: He was here. Her agonizing ordeal was finally over, and with that, she could let everything go. All of the fear, the frustration, the anguish and loneliness: She could let it all go now. Ron was back by her side once again, and all was well with the world because of it. She wasn't alone anymore.

As fresh tears began to roll down her cheeks, Ron once again found himself at a loss for words. He was so taken aback by this outpouring of emotion that his admittedly limited vocabulary failed him. Never could he have ever dreamed that Kim's emotional attachment to him ran so deep, or that his presence was so important to her. There was a psychological need to be with him, once concealed, now laid bare for all the world to see. It both filled him with joy to see the strength of their bond in a new light, and crushed his spirit to realize just how much pain his self-imposed absence had caused her.

"KP, I'm sorry." He began to say, solemnly. "Please believe me… I never, ever meant to hurt… _Whoa!_"

Six heads were jerked violently around by the sight and sound of a Mig streaking between the two crafts at full speed, its passing little more than a silver blur and a mighty roar.

"Where did _he_ come from?" Jim asked surprised.

"Hold that thought for a sec, guys." Ron growled as he began to break away from the transport. "I've got to go give this dunce bag a twenty-millimeter enema."

* * *

"_Naaaaaarrrgh!_ Who IS this guy, anyway?"

"I dunno, but whoever he is, he's good." Shego coolly replied, unfazed by the quickly intensifying rant of her employer.

"Well, he's wrecking my beautiful air force!" Drakken responded indignantly.

"Okay, first of all, it really wasn't all that beautiful," Shego replied in her typically snarky tone. "And secondly, I'd hardly call twelve planes an air force."

"Well it was the best I could throw together on the spur of the moment." Drakken groused, folding his arms defiantly over his chest. "I thought it would be a sufficient starter force."

"Yeah, best laid plans, yadda… yadda… yadda…" Shego retorted.

"Well, Shego?"

"Well what?"

"Well… DO SOMETHING!"

"All right! All right!" The raven-haired villainess shot back. "I'm on it, already. Don't go getting your boxers all in a bunch."

And with that, she began to stride confidently toward a smaller, nearby hangar.

* * *

Grunting against the strength of the turn, Ron executed a full 180, bringing himself into alignment with the Mig. The Mig responded with a 180 of its own, returning the pair to their original direction of travel. Bringing himself into position for a shot once again, Ron quickly closed the range. A Tomcat was over 400 miles per hour faster than a MiG-21, so playing catch-up wasn't a problem.

The Mig began to violently weave left and right, which was something to be expected in this sitch. One of the drawbacks to the MiG-21's design was horrendous rear-visibility. Pilots were forced to fishtail back and forth as a means of "checking their six." Unfortunately for them, the irregular maneuvering bled off speed, making the job of playing catch-up even easier.

Ron had just closed to within gun range when the Mig veered left, enticing Ron to follow. Then, in the blink of an eye, it broke back hard to its right, leaving Ron on the outside of the turn and forcing him to overshoot.

Ron now silently cursed himself for so easily falling for one of the oldest tricks in the Dogfighter's handbook. The "Horizontal Scissors" maneuver had been around since the days of the First World War, and was one of the first things they taught you in flight school. Falling victim to its ruse was a rookie mistake.

He didn't have time to dwell on this misstep right now, however. With the Mig now on his tail, he had to find a way to regain the advantage, and he had a pretty good idea of how to do it.

Barrel-rolling to avoid a burst of tracers from the Mig's 30-millimeter cannon, he gunned the throttle once more and began to climb vertically away from his pursuer. The Mig may have been fast in its own right, but its lone Tumansky R-25-300 turbojet engine was downright anemic when compared to the Tomcat's twin F110-GE-400 Turbofans. He could out-climb the Mig any day of the week, and it was by exploiting the vertical dimension in this way that he knew he could regain control of the sitch.

Soaring upward, Ron chanced a look back over his shoulder. For a brief moment, the Mig was right between his tails. Then, just as expected, it shuddered, stalled, and began to fall away. It was just the opening Ron needed.

Leveling out and rolling Sky Rat over onto its back, he scanned the area below him and quickly spotted the Mig entering a shallow dive, trying desperately to regain its lost speed. He pulled back on the yoke, sending the Tomcat into a screaming dive, rolling and plunging down onto his prey like a demonic falcon.

Falling in on the Mig's six-o'clock, he selected the M-61 Vulcan cannon in the left side of his fuselage. It only took a moment to position the gun sight piper directly over his target, the integrated radar compensating for bullet drop and telling him the instant he was within range.

The Vulcan roared with the pull of the trigger, disgorging itself of ammunition to the tune of 6,000 rounds per minute. From the Possible family's vantage point in the transport below, it looked as though a three-foot braid of fire had suddenly sprung forth from one side of Ron's aircraft. Anne would later claim to have seen "steel rain," as a torrent of spent shell casings cascaded down from the large fighter's belly, glinting in the intense sunlight of high altitude.

Three months of training now paid off in an instant, as the burst found its mark, shredding the tail of the Mig, the entire rear section bursting into flames as the engine disintegrated. Belching a trail of flame and smoke, it streaked across the sky like a great, fiery comet. Then, it did something that Ron was most definitely not expecting.

For no apparent reason, the Mig pitched up slightly and began a steady climb, quickly loosing speed as it went. It made no attempt to maneuver or evade. It only continued on in its gradual ascent, as if its pilot was simply out for a casual Sunday afternoon hop.

With his own speed now overtaking his stricken quarry, Ron quickly found himself sliding up along side of his opponent. Flames licked from holes in the fuselage, punched by shrapnel from the destroyed engine. Beyond that, puncture holes in the wings leaked fuel. What _really_ captured Ron's attention, however, was what he saw at the Mig's _front_ end.

The pilot, clad in the characteristic red jumpsuit of Drakken's henchmen, was slumped forward, hanging limp in his harness. Ahead of him, the windscreen was a mass of blood.

Ron swallowed hard, desperately trying to choke back the stinging, bitter taste of bile that was now ebbing into his throat. There was no denying what had just happened. The evidence of it all was laid out before him as clear as the Sunday classifieds:

He, Ron Stoppable, had just taken a life.

It was little consolation to him that this most likely wasn't his first kill. The absence of parachutes during his first two missile strikes indicated that those pilots had been KIA as well. But that, however, had been different. Fighting with missiles was done over long distances, sometimes even from beyond sight of your target. In such situations, it was easy to think of the fight in terms of you versus a machine, never considering that on the other end of the equation, sitting in that machine, was a pilot, just as human as you. A human being with family and friends, hopes and dreams, hobbies and fears and all of the things that encompass the brotherhood of man. A human being no different than himself, Kim, or anyone else for that matter.

…And now he had just blown that man apart.

He grasped for his mask and pressed it hard against his face, taking several deep breaths, hoping that the concentrated oxygen would clear his head of the spinning sensation that was now quickly blurring his vision. He needed something to clear his mind: Something to focus on.

He got it from an unexpected source.

"Uh, Ronald?" the frantic voice of James Possible suddenly came to him over the radio. "When you get a chance, we could really use a hand down here!"

A quick downward glance revealed that two Migs had dropped down onto the transport's tail once again, and were preparing to shoot. A plan quickly formed in Ron's head, and he didn't hesitate to put that plan into action.

"Okay Doctor P.!" he shouted back. "I need you to put that bird into a diving, left-hand turn, stat!"

"Are you sure about that, Ronald?" James asked, not quite certain as to the prudence of such a move.

"Trust him, daddy." Kim's voice softly came to him from the rear of the cabin. "I always do."

James had to think about these words for a moment. It was true, after all, that his daughter's work was dangerous. What, with all of the exploding lairs, muscle-bound goons and death rays, saving the world was a risky business. She was putting her life on the line each and every time the Kimmunicator beeped, and she took the call.

But more importantly, she was putting her life in Ron's hands as well. As her back-up, it was his task to keep her safe: To watch her back and protect her against any unforeseen dangers that may come threatening. If she ever found herself in a sitch too deep, he was the one who would reach in and pull her back out. He was her lifeline, her safety net, her life preserver in a stormy sea, and somehow with him on the job, his little Kimmie-cub always returned home in one piece.

He pushed the control column forward and turned the wheel to the left. If Ronald was a good enough guardian for his little girl, then the boy was good enough for him.

The transport obeyed his command, and the family was soon in a diving turn. The Migs followed suit, following close behind, but being prevented from taking a shot by the strength of the turn. Diving down from his position high above, Ron was soon on the Migs' tails. He momentarily felt good about the way things were developing. Then he checked his own six.

Two more Migs had now fallen in on his tail. He winced at this new development, but quickly conceded that there was nothing he could do at the moment. He had to focus on the threat in front of him: He had to protect the transport.

"Just hold tight, Doctor P." he called out. "I've got your back… eh… wing… uh… whatever."

The six aircraft were now locked in a sort of daisy-chain formation: A one-two-one-two sequence, streaking earthward in a three-G descending spiral, each one being prevented from firing on the plane in front by the strength of the looping turn. What no one knew, however, was that things were now going pretty much according to Ron's plan.

He knew what the Mig's handling characteristics were, both from classroom instruction, and from observations he had made during the preceding exchanges this day. He need only wait a few moments, allowing that which he instinctively expected, time to happen.

Then, it all unfolded right in front of him.

One of the Migs before him was unable to hold the turn, and began to slide toward the outside, directly into his sights. Seizing the opportunity, he quickly adjusted his position and fired a burst. The Mig's right wing disintegrated under the onslaught, and the stricken craft pitched violently over into a death spiral. The familiar form of a parachute could be seen as the burning plane disappeared into a cloudbank.

Now realizing that it was alone in its fight, the downed Mig's wingman quickly lost all taste for hostilities and disengaged from the transport, diving away into another bank of clouds, clearly showing no intention of rejoining the battle.

That just left the two tailgaters of his own, and Ron had a plan for dealing with them as well.

While the Mig-21 may have suffered from poor rear visibility, its forward visibility wasn't much better. In order to house its sophisticated radar systems, it was built with a large nose, and this created a blind spot directly in front of and below the aircraft. It was a design flaw born of necessity, and it was something that Ron could use to his own advantage.

Letting up on his turn ever-so slightly, he reduced throttle, allowing the Migs to edge closer. For the Migs, it was a golden opportunity to close the range. They only had to cut inside of the Tomcat's turn, and the kill was theirs.

…_Or so they thought._

Pivoting in his harness to watch the scene behind him, Ron waited for the exact moment when the Migs' turn would put him directly in their blind spots. When that moment came, he shoved the yoke down and right, gunning the throttle and plunging into a diving turn away from his pursuers.

To the enemy pilots, it seemed as though their target had simply disappeared.

Pulling out of the dive, Ron quickly began to double back, looking to turn the tables on the enemy once again. His laser-like focus was suddenly shattered by an unexpected call on the radio.

"All clear and stand down!" he heard the jubilant voice of Kim's father call out. "Remaining bandits are bugging out!"

Glancing wildly about, it soon became clear what James Possible was referring to. The surviving handful of Migs had now scattered in all directions, clearly adopting a policy of "every man for himself." Like roaches fleeing from the light of day, they raced downward, desperately seeking the protection of the clouds, disappearing into the bleach-white formations as they went.

Looking out at the now empty sky, Ron could hardly believe what had just happened. Equipped with nothing but his training and a level of courage that bordered on insane stupidity, he had thrown himself against impossible 12-1 odds, and come through victorious. What was more, he had scored six kills in the process, eliminating a full half of the enemy force, and making himself an "Ace in a Day:" The most coveted of all air-combat titles. The entire exchange had only lasted a few minutes, but they were a few minutes that he was sure to remember for the rest of his life.

He wore a self-satisfied smile plastered across his entire face by the time he pulled along side the transport once again, this time being greeted by a rousing chorus of radio chatter.

"Woo-hoo! Way to go, Ron!"

"Yeah, Ron… You Rock!"

"Hicka-bicka-boo!"

"Hoo-sha!"

The appreciative cheers of the Possible family filled both Ron's ears and heart, but his eyes were locked on Kim. Sitting in the back of the cabin, she didn't say a word, instead allowing her expression to convey everything that needed to be said.

Her face showed no sign of anger or resentment. Even though running off the way he did probably wasn't the smartest or most considerate thing to do, it had been done for all the right reasons. It had been done out of love and devotion. It had been done for her.

With the sole purpose of being a better partner to her, Ron had pushed himself far beyond any of his previous boundaries, and had achieved things which no one, including himself, had ever dreamed possible for him. He had transformed himself from an awkward, eccentric underachiever into a warrior, and at the end of the day, he had done it all for her.

Instead of anger or bitterness, Kim's expression was one of complete love and admiration. What lengths _wasn't_ he willing to go to for her? He would undoubtedly endeavor to move the earth itself if he felt she wanted or needed him to. His devotion to her was so total, so complete, that it seemed to defy human comprehension. He would do anything to make her happy, and right now she was the happiest person in the world.

Looking deep into those chocolate brown eyes that seemed to captivate her very soul, she could see that world spread out before her. She really could do anything, just as long as he was standing by her side. His presence refreshed her spirit, nourished her soul, and allowed her to believe in herself in a way that nothing else could. He was her world, in so many different ways… And what a wonderful world that was.

Looking back across the distance between them, Ron gazed deeply into Kim's emerald-green orbs, and could see a flood of emotion surging toward him. He could see the depth of the love she held for him, the pride she felt in all that he had accomplished, and the gratitude she carried in the knowledge that he had done it all for her. For the first time in nearly three months, he felt complete: His heart filled with an overwhelming joy and satisfaction that nothing else could ever provide. To know that Kim, his Kim, was happy: This was his ultimate purpose in life. The vindication that came with knowing he had succeeded in this endeavor justified his existence, and restored his soul.

Gazing longingly at Ron's cherubic features, Kim noticed his focus suddenly shift from her, to something slightly behind her. Turning around in confusion, she gasped at the sight of another craft gliding up beside them: An odd-looking twin-tailed, delta-wing fighter, painted in an eye-popping display of green and black.

"Shego!" Kim growled through gritted teeth, instantly recognizing the plane from their encounter during the Nakasumi Toy Parade.

"Hiya, Pumpkin." Shego sang in return. "Did ya' miss me?"

"What are _you_ doing here?" Kim snarled. "Looking to pick up some frequent flyer miles?"

"Oh, return yourself to your original upright position, Princess." Shego shot back. "I'm just here to check out your new escort." She said the last part with a lascivious grin.

The grin quickly disappeared, however, when she looked past her goody-two-shoes foe to the far side of the transport.

"No _way!_" she gasped in disbelief.

"Way." Ron stated matter-of-factly.

"The idiot is a Top Gun?" Shego inquired, still not believing what she was seeing.

"_Meh…_ I was bored… It was something to do…" Ron replied with a playful shrug.

"Sorry… I just can't believe it." The green-skinned temptress said defiantly. "That's just a little too-far out there for my liking."

"You want him to show you, then?" Kim broke in, a faintly malicious smile spreading across her face.

"Whoa there, KP!" Ron suddenly spoke up. "Let's think about this for a sec. I mean, this is _Shego_ we're talking about here."

"Ron," Kim said reassuringly, "you just knocked down half a squadron on your lonesome. You can take her. I know it."

"I dunno, KP. I've got some serious reservations 'bout this. I mean, remember that time in Tokyo. We both saw what that bird is capable of."

"Ron…"

"Yeah."

"I believe in you."

Four simple words; just five syllables in length, that somehow managed to carry an entire soul's worth of hope and support across the short distance between them. Four words that buoyed his spirit and hardened his resolve. His eyes narrowed and his mouth grew tense as his mind reached the inevitable conclusion:

"_I can take her!"_

"Any time you're ready, geekazoid." Shego baited from the far side of the transport.

"Bring it on, green bean." Came his terse reply.

And with that, the two pilots gunned their respective throttles and pulled back, surging toward the stratosphere in a vertical climb. The battle of the sidekicks had now been joined, and its outcome would determine the future course of more lives than anyone would have ever dreamed possible.

* * *

**Author's Notes:**

Eighteen pages in MS Word: Like WOW, dude! Sometimes these chapters just seem to grow on you… _literally._

Okay, okay, so there are a few words in this chapter that you won't find by reading Webster's. I admit it… I made them up. Sue me, already!

_Delta Wing:_ In the past couple of chapters, I've made reference to something called a "delta-wing configuration." To put it in simple terms, a delta wing is an aircraft wing shaped like a triangle. Its name is a reference to the Greek letter Delta, which in the Greek alphabet, is written as a triangle.

_AIM-54 Phoenix:_ The weapon around which the Tomcat was built. First developed in the early 1960s for the cancelled F-111/B naval variant, the Phoenix was designed to protect American naval forces against low-flying, fast-moving cruise missiles launched from Soviet bombers. The first true "fire-and-forget" weapon to be implemented by the U.S. Navy, the cancellation of the F-111/B necessitated development of an alternative aircraft to serve as a platform for deploying the Phoenix. Northrop/Grumman responded to the challenge by developing the F-14, and the rest is history.

_AIM-7 Sparrow:_ An early radar guided missile first deployed during the war in Vietnam, the Sparrow belongs to a family of weapons known as Advanced Medium Range Air-to-Air Missiles (AMRAAM). Steadily upgraded over the years as technology has progressed, the Sparrow has proven to be highly adaptable, and is still deployed by every branch of the United States Armed Forces.

_M-61 Vulcan:_ Started by General Electric Corporation immediately following World War Two, "Project Vulcan" was an attempt to build a rapid-firing weapon that would accommodate the faster closing speeds associated with newly-developed jet aircraft of the day. Later sold to General Dynamics Incorporated, the project not only produced the M-61, but also larger caliber variants such as the 25-millimeter GAU-12, which is deployed aboard the U.S. Marine Corps AV-8B Harrier II, and the tank-shredding 30-millimeter GAU-8 Avenger cannon, deployed by the A-10 Warthog.

_Minor Correction:_ Just a slight change that I made to this chapter on October 25, 2007. It was brought to my attention that the F-14 carries its Vulcan cannon in the left fuselage, rather than the wing root as I had previously indicated. Aircraft such as the F-15 Eagle, F-16 Fighting Falcon, and F-22 Raptor all carry their guns in the wing root, but with the Tomcat's elaborate "swing wing" mechanism, I guess there just isn't enough room available. Special thanks to member _Rei Ronin_ for pointing this out to me: That dude really knows his airplanes!

And so our happy couple has found each other once again. But will they fly off into the sunset for their "happily ever after?" Not if a certain green-hued ne'er-do-well has anything to say about it. Sit tight folks, because this sitch is just starting to heat up. Next stop: The Danger Zone!

See ya'll in the next chap!

_Nutzkie…_


	10. Mono Y Mono

**Required Legal Mumbo-Jumbo:**

For the record, I don't own KP. The same goes for any characters, settings, descriptions or catch-phrases which you may or may not happen to recognize from the show. Any and all attempts to sue me will be met with severe disappointment. (Can't get blood from a turnip, folks.) Employees and their families are ineligible. Must be 21 or older. No purchase necessary. Void where prohibited. See store for details. Prosecutors will be violated. All rights reserved. So there!

* * *

**- Chapter Ten -**

_Mono Y Mono_

Two sleek forms zoomed upward, pirouetting about each other in an elegant double helix. Canopy-to-canopy, they soared toward the heavens, seemingly unaffected by gravity's omnipresent constraint.

"Not bad, Blondie." Shego chided into her microphone. "I see you've been practicing."

"Your not so bad yourself." Ron playfully replied. "But let's see how well you _hammerhead."_

With that statement, both pilots rotated their crafts' bellies toward each other and chopped throttle, slowing their mutual ascent to a crawl, then a stop. For the briefest of moments, they both hung there, suspended between heaven and earth, their noses pointing straight up toward the infinite beyond.

Then, they began to fall back, first leaning their respective craft ever so slightly onto their backs, then backsliding past each other, their wings mere feet apart. Moments later, they rotated their noses downward and began a hellish plummet back toward the confines of mother earth, plunging side-by-side as they went.

To the Possible family, watching from their aerial vantage point far below, it looked to be some sort of dance recital: An elegant ballet, played out upon a stage of clouds, choreographed by the gods themselves.

"Awwww, man… Why aren't they shooting at each other?" Jim whined.

"They're sizing each other up." James explained, easily comprehending what he was seeing. "Trying to feel out each other's strengths and weaknesses… Determining strategies and tactics… Stuff like that."

"Five bucks on Shego." Tim said, elbowing his brother.

"Tim!" Kim growled. "Would you mind not betting on the person trying to kill my boyfriend?"

"Boys… There will be no rooting for your sister's arch-foe." James reprimanded his sons.

Kim simply watched the aerobatic display now taking place above her with wide-eyed wonderment. Although she admittedly knew little about aerial combat tactics, she could see distinct differences in the two planes, and could theorize how these factors might influence a fight.

Shego, it seemed, held the advantage of agility. Her green jet, with its forked tail and downward-turned wingtips, was built for aerobatics, and was capable of turning on a dime. Of course nobody needed to tell Kim this. She had seen the craft in action before, and the way it had handled the urban canyons of downtown Tokyo, dodging billboards and carnival balloons, was ample proof of just how nimble it could be.

Ron, on the other hand, had power in his corner. The Tomcat's twin turbofans could easily blow the wings off of Shego's single-engine craft. Even with one engine out of commission, Kim figured he could probably still outrun the green villainess. And on top of it all, Ron certainly seemed to know just how to use that power to his full advantage.

It seemed almost impossible to reconcile what she was now seeing with the Ron she had spent so many years growing up with. On the ground, he was clumsy, uncoordinated, and generally lacking in both skill and discipline. He could be timid, hesitant, and prone to fits of fear and phobia. He wasn't an intimidating specimen by any definition of the word.

In the air, however, he was a tiger. Skilled and courageous, he attacked his targets with a whole-hearted gusto the likes of which Kim would have never dreamed him capable of. His motions were swift and fluid, flowing seamlessly from himself to his airplane, creating an almost magical convergence of man and machine.

Three months of intensive training suddenly coalesced in the span of an instant, with commands and maneuvers occurring based on instinct and gut feeling, rather than rational thought or planning. He was one with his aircraft, his mind and body connected to its complex systems by an almost spiritual bond. He didn't fly it so much as he wielded it, and it was just as much a part of him as his eyes or arms.

"I gotta say, I'm impressed." Shego finally admitted. "You're pretty good… for an _amateur."_

"An amateur?" Ron responded incredulously. "Heck, I'm just getting started. But what about you? Ever considered a career in crop dusting?"

"Oh that's it, sidekick! It's time for you to fly the _unfriendly_ skies!"

"Well then get ready to kiss the sunshine and taste the freakin' rainbow, She-goat! This game is on and crackin'!"

"Hope you took out flight insurance!"

"Hope you know a good burn specialist!"

And with those words, the two aerial warriors turned into each other and began their attacks.

Shego started by dropping down and cutting across Ron's flight path from right to left, hoping to make him overshoot. Ron countered with a vector roll, pitching up and to the right, then executing an overhead loop that brought him down onto Shego's tail. Shego responded by breaking hard left, allowing the speed of Ron's dive to carry him past her position before reversing her turn, rolling back into Ron's path, and dropping in on his six o'clock. Then it was Ron's turn to respond, as he pushed his throttle to the firewall and climbed steeply away, quickly outrunning the green jet and its considerably weaker engine.

And so it went: Each pilot using their own aircraft to the best of their abilities, playing to their own strengths, and attempting to make their opponent fight their fight, rather than his or her own. It soon became a cycle with a predictable pattern: Engage, attack, evade, retreat, regroup and repeat.

In this aerial chess match, Shego would try baiting Ron into a tight, turning, close-in dogfight. Ron, on the other hand, would attempt a more vertical approach to the conflict, diving down onto Shego for an attack, then climbing steeply away, making best use of his horsepower advantage.

For Ron, the scene was all too familiar. This was, after all, the same basic situation he had encountered time and time again while playing "Wings of War." Just as his Tomcat was faster and less agile than Shego's jet, so was the Corsair he had flown into virtual combat against hordes of Japanese Zeros. The only difference was the addition of jet propulsion and missiles.

Well, that… and the fact that this particular reality wasn't of the virtual persuasion.

He didn't have much time to ponder this, however, as both he and Shego were now screaming upward in a maneuver known as the "Vertical Rolling Scissors."

It was a classic jet maneuver, first invented by pilots during the Korean War, in which two planes soar vertically through a series of "S" turns, trying to use the speed reduction of each turn to get behind their opponent. Upon reaching the apex of the climb, they would both descend in the same manner before turning upward once again and repeating the process.

There was just one problem with this tactic, however. The constant climbing and maneuvering was costing them both speed, and the slower they both went, the more Shego's agility would come into play. This was quickly becoming Shego's fight.

Reaching the apex of a climb, Ron briefly considered engaging the Tomcat's new hybrid engines in rocket mode, and proceeding to sub-orbital flight. He dismissed this idea, however, once he considered the ramifications of such an act.

By going sub-orbital, he would have little control of where he would come down. By the time he re-entered the atmosphere, he could quite literally be on the other side of the globe: A position that would certainly put him a great distance away from the fight, but also put him a great distance away from Kim.

This was a situation that he just couldn't accept. Leaving Kim and her family alone with Shego in a hostile sky was a recipe for disaster, plain and simple. He would have to stay close by and maintain his protection of the transport.

Now entering another descent pattern, he took the opportunity to break away from Shego once again, accelerating through the dive and turning away from the nimble green jet, heading for the protection of a nearby patch of clouds.

In frustration, Shego activated the four plasma cannon in her plane's nose and fired a burst, but quickly found that her target was already out of range. She growled to herself, swearing an oath that she would get that brown-eyed buffoon, one way or another.

Slowly turning her head, Shego methodically scanned the cloudbanks that the idiot had disappeared into. He had to be out there somewhere, setting up to make another pass. Her grip on the wheel tightened as the seconds ticked by, and the tension mounted. She knew he would attack again: The only question was when, and from where.

Those questions were abruptly answered by a blaring alarm tone that suddenly filled the cockpit. Somehow, Ron had managed to sneak up behind her, and had fired one of his heat-seeking AIM-9 Sidewinder missiles. She needed to act fast if she was going to save her own skin.

Within half an instant, she had pitched over into a barrel roll and had dispensed several diversionary flares. She smiled as the maneuver had the desired effect, sending the missile streaking off into open sky, its heat-seeking guidance system thoroughly confused by the extreme temperature of the flares.

Still, this was no time to celebrate. Ron was still on her tail, and potentially in a position to shoot again. She had to shake him somehow, and she had at least one idea of how to accomplish this.

Dropping her nose downward, she entered a shallow dive, then pulled up slightly to regain the altitude she had lost. Her smile grew even wider as the maneuver progressed.

"_The buffoon is probably just dumb enough to fall for this."_ The villainous vixen thought to herself.

Seeing the green jet before him straighten out its flight path before diving, then climbing once again, Ron couldn't believe his luck. This was the perfect chance to close within gun range, and hopefully finish this fight once and for all. He pulled up slightly, aiming for the patch of sky where he knew Shego would momentarily be.

He was seriously surprised then, when the only thing he could see in that sky, was sky.

Angrily, he slapped a gloved hand against the side of his helmet and swore an oath. He had just fallen for the same trick he had used against the two Migs that had been tailing him several minutes before. The Mig-21 wasn't the only plane with a large, radar-filled nose, and a blind spot to match.

Anxiously, he glanced about the sky, searching for any sign of the little green jet.

"_Hmmmmm… She could be somewhere below me."_ He thought to himself. _"She could be in those clouds over there, or maybe even coming out of the sun for a…"_

Suddenly his control panel lit up like a Christmas tree, warning lights flaring to life.

"…_Or she could be right behind me."_ He moaned dejectedly.

His mind switching quickly to evasion mode, Ron rolled Sky Rat onto its back and pulled back on the stick, sending the plane into a screaming "Split-S." A quick glance back over his shoulder confirmed his suspicions. There was a missile right on his tail, tracking hot, straight and true.

Plunging into a screaming dive, he allowed the missile enough time to follow, then pulled up sharply. G forces increased his body weight to over eight times normal, and he strained to remain conscious. It felt like he had a safe sitting in his lap, but he held the turn. If the missile were less maneuverable than he was, then the speed from the dive would cause it to overshoot through the turn. In this way, evading a missile wasn't that much different than evading another aircraft. The same laws of physics governed both situations.

Another rearward glance painted a somewhat less-than-rosy picture. The missile had held the turn, and was still tracking him like a supersonic bloodhound. Clearly, it was time for plan "B."

If only he had one of those.

Twisting and turning, dodging and weaving, diving and climbing, grunting and straining against the near constant G-forces, he pulled every trick and maneuver he could think of. In short, he tried everything he could to evade the ever-present missile behind him, but all his efforts were to no avail.

Even at full afterburner, he doubted he could outrun such an advanced weapon. He could probably keep pace with it in a dive, but that would only last until he ran out of altitude. Then he would be forced to pull up: Right into the missile's path.

Well in any case, diving would buy him some time. Maybe, just maybe, something would develop during those few seconds that would give him an edge. If not, then he was sure his funeral would be a very touching affair.

He swallowed hard as he plunged Sky Rat's nose downward once again, silently praying that his characteristic dumb luck would hold true. Afterburners flared again, trailing great spikes of white-hot flame with dozens of shock diamonds embedded through their cores. Surging earthward through 30,000 feet of airspace, he could see his life flashing before him, and he marveled at just how true the time-honored cliché actually was.

There were scenes of his first day of preschool, his barmitzva, the day he joined the pep squad, and the day he graduated up to the football team. It was a Rolodex of his proudest moments, and in each and every one of them, standing front and center in his memory, was Kim.

For nearly as long as he could remember, she had been the one constant in his life: The one person he knew he could always depend on. Even as they had gotten older, and being "cool" had become a social requisite, she had not abandoned him. Even when it became painfully clear that he would never approach anything resembling her abilities or social standing, she had stuck by him, never wavering in the friendship she offered.

It was for this reason that he was so totally and completely devoted to her. Without Kim, he realized, growing up for him would have been an excruciatingly lonely experience. There wasn't a day that went by, when he didn't thank the heavens themselves for seeing fit to send her to him. She was, in a sense, his entire world.

For the span of an instant, time seemed to stand still, and he marveled at the passing parade of images now flashing before his mind's eye. Then, from the corner of his vision, he saw something else.

Below him and to his right, perched atop a tiny flyspeck of an island, was an airfield. For the most part, its facilities appeared to have lain abandoned for some time, the infrastructure thoroughly ravaged by the dual forces of time and the elements.

But one part of the facility seemed to be in remarkably good shape. From his position, Ron could see a freshly paved runway and tarmac, as well as a hangar that appeared to be serviceable. There was a water tower, an assortment of auxiliary structures, and a flight line that was full of parked planes.

It didn't take long for him to recognize the familiar outline of the Mig-21. He had seen more than enough of the nimble fighter during the last half hour, and he instinctively knew that he had found Drakken's base of operation.

Looking down onto the gleaming facility, a malicious grin quickly spread across his face. He had found his plan "B."

"_If I can't lose this thing," _he thought to himself, _"then maybe I can use it."_

Continuing the dive, he banked right, toward the airfield far below. Making a B-line toward the tarmac, he leveled out at a point just ten feet off the ground, allowing Sky Rat to pass beneath the sound barrier as he did so. A quick check over his shoulder confirmed that his unwelcome visitor was still with him, and he made a final adjustment to his flight path: A path that was taking him straight toward the hangar.

His grip on the control stick suddenly tightened to a point that he could hear his knuckles crack, and his eyes narrowed in concentration. He would only get one shot at this, and there was no room for error. This would be the deciding moment of the battle: It was all or nothing.

Throughout the hangar, henchmen dove for cover. Those that didn't were soundly knocked to the floor by a shockwave as the massive jet boomed through the confined space at trans-sonic speed. Crates toppled, windows shattered, the very building itself shook from its foundations, and one of the parked Migs was flipped onto its back like an unfortunate turtle.

Some of the henchmen, fortunate enough to have remained conscious, quickly got up and looked around. A few of those men turned just in time to see the object that had been following the Tomcat bearing down upon them.

It's onboard guidance system confused by the suddenly cluttered environment, the missile veered wildly off course and collided with the now overturned Mig in the center of the hangar. The resulting explosion completely destroyed this plane, then quickly spread to a half-dozen others that shared the space, as well as ammunition stockpiles stored inside the stacked-up shipping crates.

A great shockwave suddenly rolled out across the field as the hangar was consumed in a gigantic fireball. Rolling and surging upward at break-neck speed, the great ball of flame soon took on the familiar shape of a mushroom cloud. Even in the light of day, it lit up the entire complex, while the shockwave set off ripples of explosions through nearby ammo stores and fuel dumps. Planes parked along the tarmac were consumed in flames, each one being torched-off in turn by its neighbor. Nearby buildings collapsed under the concussive force of the monumental blast, and the water tower was toppled to the ground.

Peering warily out at the carnage from the emergency escape hatch of the underground bunker, a pair of blue-framed black eyes could only look on helplessly as their owner quietly whimpered to himself.

"_This… is going… to raise… my insurance… premiums."_ Drakken whined pathetically.

* * *

Thirty-six thousand feet above the raging inferno, five hearts sank in unison. They had watched the fight unfold around them, their rapt attention hanging on every turn and dive. Now, with the scene of destruction playing out beneath them, they reluctantly concluded that the worst had come to pass.

Kim could only clench her fists and grit her teeth as tears started to well up from the depths. For her, it wasn't just a burning airfield that she was looking at. It was a funeral pyre: A macabre conflagration marking the end of two lives, one of them her own.

In the great burning wreck of the hangar, she saw all of her hopes and dreams being consumed. Her entire future, and any chance she may have had for happiness, was now reduced to cinders before her very eyes: An entire life's worth of potential, now scattered to the wind in a cloud of ash.

As she desperately fought back against losing it entirely, Kim was barely aware of the green and black form sliding up along side the transport.

"I gotta say, he did better than I expected." Shego nonchalantly quipped, looking down at the destruction below.

"You… y-you… killed… him." Kim barely managed to stutter.

"Well _doy,_ pumpkin. State the obvious much?"

"YOU KILLED HIM!"

"Hey now… don't go off blaming me." Shego said defensively. "You put him up to this, little Miss 'I Believe In You.'"

"I SWEAR TO GOD, WHEN I GET MY HANDS ON YOU… YOU'LL NEVER BE DEAD ENOUGH!"

"Oh come off it Princess. The way I see it, I just did you a major favor." The green villainess retorted flippantly. "I just saved you the trouble of spending your entire life joined at the hip to that perpetual screw-up."

"THAT DOES IT! I'M GONNA TURN YOU INTO MY OWN PERSONAL HAND PUPPET!!" Kim screamed, lunging toward the Plexiglas canopy.

Her mother and brothers were now forced to jump up and restrain her, partly for fear that Kim would hurt herself, and partly for fear that she just might succeed in breaking through the protective bubble separating them from the extremely thin atmosphere outside.

Now blinded by tears and beside her self with rage, Kim fought back mightily, attempting to punch and claw her way through the Plexiglas wall before her. She would tear out the heart of the person who had taken Ron away from her, even if it was the last thing she ever did.

Shego had to smile at the display of emotion now playing out before her. This was her ultimate victory, after all. The moment she had dreamed of for so long, when her goodie-goodie teen nemesis was reduced to a quivering, emotionally wrecked basket case, and all of it by her hand. This was a moment to be savored, and savor it she would.

Savor it so much, in fact, that she failed to notice the two red tails cutting through the clouds behind her, like a pair of crimson sharks stalking their prey.

Pulling up behind the green jet at a range of just 600 yards, Ron could see that Shego was meat on the table. She wasn't expecting an attack, was in no position to evade, and her engine exhaust port was completely exposed, glowing like a spotlight in his thermal scope.

He selected a Sidewinder and allowed the electronic growl of the targeting computer to fill his earpiece, confirming that he was locked and loaded. He smiled, savoring this moment of sweet victory. Then, he opened a communication channel, and cued his microphone.

"Easy now, Princess." Shego taunted. "This whole drama queen thing you've got going right now… It really doesn't fit the image of…"

"_Ahem…_ We interrupt this gloat to bring you a late-breaking announcement." A voice suddenly called out, cutting Shego off in mid-sentence. "You lose… _Film at eleven._"

Stunned by the sudden intrusion, Shego spun 'round in her harness, just in time to see the flash of the Sidewinder's rocket igniting.

"Fox two!" came the accompanying call.

Shego was caught totally flat-footed in this sitch. Thinking she had just finished off the buffoon once and for all, she was ghosting along a half-throttle with her autopilot engaged. With the Tomcat only a few hundred yards behind, there was no time to maneuver, or even pickle flares. As she helplessly watched the missile accelerate toward her, there was only time enough for a single thought:

"_Damn! …And I just had this thing detailed, too!"_

The Sidewinder found its mark, flying right up Shego's exhaust port and detonating its 20-pound warhead inside. Rocked by the blast, the green jet was sent skittering sideways for a brief moment, before fishtailing wildly as the aft section was consumed in flames.

Shego squinted through the now smoke-filled cockpit, trying desperately to regain control of her bird. A series of warning lights lit up her control panel like Saturday night in Las Vegas, and a cacophony of sirens, buzzers and synthetic voices screamed alerts regarding a laundry list of critical failures.

She was in full hydraulic failure, the controls were non-responsive, and the fly-by-wire computers responsible for stabilizing the plane were off line. The raging fire behind her was now moving forward, and she could hear the tell-tale sounds of structural failure as the airframe began to break up.

When it finally entered a flat spin, however, Shego realized that her beloved little jet just wasn't coming back.

Groping blindly through the smoky atmosphere that now filled the cockpit, she felt for and found the "eject" handle on the floor between her legs, and she silently prayed that it would work. With a brisk tug, the canopy was blasted clean away. A half-second later, the rocket beneath her seat fired, and she was out, the slipstream smacking her squarely in the face as she cleared the top of her windscreen.

Momentarily stunned by the sudden shift in momentum, she was jarred awake by the gentle tug of her harness as a green and black parachute canopy deployed above her.

Looking down, she could see the craft she had come to enjoy piloting so much, spiraling helplessly into the sea, disappearing in a two-tone plume of black smoke and white steam when it finally hit.

Looking up, she grimaced as the retreating forms of the transport and the Tomcat soared off into the setting sun. Filled with a strangely subdued rage, she ground her teeth and swore an oath to only herself:

"_Next time, Princess… Next time."_

* * *

Retaking his protective position beside the transport, Ron's smile stretched nearly around to the back of his head. He didn't need to hear the appreciative cheers of the Possible family to know that he had done something great this day.

Of course that wasn't to say he didn't enjoy the cheering just the same.

"Yes… yes… and thank you for flying Ron Air." He sing-songed into the radio. "The only airline where Lady Luck is your co-pilot, and your stewardess is a naked mole rat."

"_Hurk…_ Booyah!" Rufus squeaked, pumping a tiny fist from his perch atop Ron's shoulder.

The small creature traded a high-five with his owner before retreating into his usual pocket on Ron's flight suit.

"Total awesomeness, Ron!" Jim shouted as Ron turned a glance his way.

"Yeah! Way to bring the wicked badage!" Tim concurred.

"_Meh…_ She wasn't so tough." Ron replied with a dismissive wave of his hand. "As a certain friend of mine is so fond of saying, 'it's no big.'"

Kim's grin was absolutely beaming, even as semi-dried tears still stained her cheeks. Only moments before, she had thought him lost to her forever. But now, just as he always seemed to do, he had beaten the odds and pulled victory from the jaws of certain defeat, saving all of their skins in the process once again.

"_How is he able to do it?"_ Kim asked herself. _"How was nature ever able to create such a potent cocktail of skill, luck, devotion and tenacity? And what did I ever do to deserve having that kind of a person in my life?"_

This last question stumped her more than any other. As much as Ron may fuss from time to time about his not being worthy of her, it was she who often found herself wondering about her worthiness for him. Her track record, she had to admit, was somewhat spotty in that department.

During their sophomore year, his constant friendship and encouragement had given her the confidence to ask Josh Mankey to the spring dance. She had repaid him by locking him in a closet.

When Drakken had tried to erase her with an embarrassment spray, Ron had trekked to the Amazon, braving waterfalls and killer jungle cats to procure the antidote.

She had risked it all to go on a date with Josh that night, and when Ron had shown up at the last second to save both the day and her life, she had turned her back on him and let Josh walk her home.

And when Erik had come along, she had been so quick to push Ron aside. Yet when Drakken abducted her father, Ron was on her doorstep within minutes, ready and eager to charge into battle right beside her.

She had thanked him by pushing him aside once again and taking Erik to the prom, leaving Ron stag on the biggest night of their young lives.

Just what kind of a friend was she, she asked herself, and she didn't particularly care for the answer she got in return.

Silently, she swore to herself that when they all returned home, she would spend the remainder of her days trying to be the best friend/lover/spouse to Ron that she possibly could. She would prove herself worthy of him, even if it took the rest of her life to do so.

"Well we certainly appreciate your showing up, Ron." Her mother observed, snapping Kim away from her train of thought. "This would certainly count as a pleasant surprise."

"Yeah, well… I'm just doing the best I can with the tools I got." Ron replied in a casual tone. "And what a set of tools it is."

"I'll say!" James broke in. "Say, are those the new hybrid orbital engines that I've been hearing about?"

"You know it, dude."

"Fascinating!" James remarked with awe. "…Didn't realize they had miniaturized the injectors enough to fit them into the original airframe. I thought for sure they'd have to modify the fuselage somehow."

"So how did they get around the hypo-oxidation problem?" Tim suddenly asked enthusiastically.

"Or the overheating issues?" Jim added.

"Uhhhhhh… Say again?" Ron meekly asked.

"Sorry guys, but if he told you, he'd have to kill you." Another voice suddenly broke in, startling everyone in the group.

A quick look to the right revealed two more aircraft pulling up along side. For the Possible family, it came as a complete surprise, but for Ron, it was almost expected.

"You dudes just missed all the wicked action!" he quipped. "What the heck took you slowpokes so long?"

"Traffic." The anonymous voice responded. "But don't worry… We saw it all on our scopes. Nice work by the way. How many was that? Six?"

"Seven." Ron stated proudly. "Copy, seven bandits splashed."

"Roger that… Copy scratch seven. Congratulations, Mad Dog."

"Thank you… everyone… thank you… I'm here 'till Thursday."

"Yeah, that's swell, Mister Entertainment." Kim playfully quipped. "Would the one-man-show care to introduce us to his new friends?"

"Oh, right, sorry." Ron replied apologetically. "Possible clan, this is my team du jour. Meet Reflex One and Reflex Two, respectively."

"Charmed, to be sure." The friendly voice replied through the radio before continuing.

"Not to interrupt the shop talk or anything," the voice stated, suddenly switching to a more serious tone, "but we're bingo fuel in ten."

"Oy… That's bad." Ron stated flatly, glancing down to check his own fuel reserves.

"And that's even worse." He said, his voice dropping as he saw just how little juice was left in his own tanks. "Don't suppose you know of any gas stations around here, do you?"

"Control has an S-3 tanker en route. We'll rendezvous on the way back to the flattop."

"Coolness! Any chance they'll do the windshield and check the tires while they're at it?"

"Doubtful, lieutenant."

"_Meh_, I figured as much." Ron groused playfully before continuing. "So what about force protection? I don't really feel comfortable leaving these folks alone just yet. What, with what I just went through, the skies around these parts aren't looking all that friendly right now."

"Zephyr Flight reports itself inbound with four F-18s. They'll pick up escort duties and lead the objective to safety." Came the professional-sounding reply.

"Hornets? Yeah, that'll do the trick." Ron replied thoughtfully. "What's their ETA?"

"Flight lead reports they'll be on scene in four minutes."

"Any other potentially hostile contacts nearby at the moment?"

"Negative. The skies are bogey-free."

"Okeedokee, then. That should work."

Ron then turned toward Kim and her family, his expression suddenly one of melancholy and sadness.

"I've got to go." He said in a subdued tone, casting his eyes downward. "Gotta catch a wire and stuff, ya' know."

"Yeah, I know." Kim replied, her own heart sinking in her chest. After three months of missing him, knowing that he was about to leave her once again was almost unbearable.

"Hey, _heeeeeeey…_" Ron tenderly responded, causing her to look up, meeting his gaze with her own.

"I'll see you in two weeks." He said with a warm, loving smile. "Okay?"

"Okay." was Kim's one-word reply.

"Wait for me?"

"Natch."

Ron simply smiled in return. Then, sitting upright in the cockpit and drawing his shoulders back, he snapped a salute that would have been the envy of recruiting posters everywhere.

And with that parting gesture, he slowly banked away, following close behind his comrades in arms. Kim watched intently as the trio of planes turned and slowly descended, holding her gaze until their receding forms completely disappeared into the clouds below, leaving the family alone in an empty sky once again.

"Goodbye, Ron." She whispered softly.

* * *

Ron stood ramrod straight in the center of the small office, bracing him self against what he knew was coming. It was less than ten minutes ago that he had hit the flight deck, and before he was even out of the cockpit, a junior enlisted man was handing him a message summoning him to this place. It was nothing less than exactly what he had been expecting.

He loved flying, and he loved the Eagles, but there were now lines that had been crossed, and bridges that had been burned. There would soon be consequences for his actions.

He thought back to his applied aeronautics course, and the day the instructor had explained Goddard's Principal of Rocketry. _"Now remember that for every action, there is an opposite and equal reaction."_ The officer had explained. Somehow Ron knew that this concept was about to take on an entirely new meaning in his life.

Looking up from the after action reports he was holding, the officer seated behind the desk regarded Ron. He seemed to study every facet of his appearance, carefully reading his state of mind.

"So you downed seven then, did you?" he finally asked, matter-of-factly.

"Yes sir, Commander Tomlin, sir."

"And another six retreated without incident?"

"Yes sir."

"And when the engagement had ended, you simply rejoined your formation and returned to base?"

"Correct sir." Ron replied. He knew that this was the moment he dreaded: The moment that all of his dreams and ambitions would crash and burn on final approach. He was about to be drummed out of the service.

"_Take it like a man."_ He silently recited, steeling himself against the approaching storm. _"Take it like a man."_

"Very well, then." Commander Tomlin said, closing the folder in front of him. "Good work, lieutenant."

This wasn't the response that Ron had been expecting.

"Uh, excuse me, sir?" Ron spoke up, not certain what to make of the situation.

"Is there a problem?" the Commander inquired.

"Well, it's just… Aren't you going to dishonorably discharge me, of keel haul me, or something scary-sounding like that?"

"Okay, first of all, we don't keel haul people any more," Tomlin explained. "And secondly, why the heck would I want to do that?"

"Well, I just thought… because I disobeyed orders… ya' know… when I broke formation…"

Commander Tomlin sighed as he settled back into his chair. The boy in front of him was obviously worried about regulations, and not comprehending the larger picture. It was a common trait in junior officers, who usually lacked the perspective and experience needed to see beyond the rules. He resolved to explain the situation to this young man right then and there.

"Is that all you think you did up there? Disobey orders by breaking formation?" he asked.

"Well, didn't I?" Ron asked, wondering just where Tomlin was going with this.

"True, you did… But you also did a lot more."

"Okay… _Really_ think that I'm missing something here."

"You protected the innocent," Tomlin explained. "And you defended justice. This is what the Eagles are all about. Don't you see, you upheld the mission of this entire organization. You stood up and exemplified the very ideals and values upon which the Eagles are based. The ideals for which each and every one of us is prepared to live and die for."

"But… my… orders…"

"…Don't mean much in this situation, big picture-wise." Tomlin explained. "The field of battle can be a fluid and confusing place, and victory can often hinge on a single soldier taking the initiative."

"Traditional military 'top-down' command structures just don't allow for the flexibility combat sometimes demands." Tomlin continued. "In these situations, a good officer is sometimes forced to interpret his orders, rather than just blindly follow them. In the end, even the best soldier sometimes disobeys orders. It doesn't make him a bad soldier. On the contrary, it makes him all the better."

"Yeah, I think I get it now." Ron spoke up. "But I also broke my oath of anonymity. Doesn't that cost me anything?"

"Not in this case, it doesn't." Tomlin explained. "You needed to coordinate your tactics with your objective. Making verbal contact was therefore a necessary part of completing the mission."

"Yeah, okay… but…"

"Look… Are you saying you want me to kick you out?"

"No sir!" Ron nearly shouted in reply.

"Well… Then stop trying to give me reasons, damn it!" Tomlin said with a tone of annoyance in his voice. "You did an excellent job up there today. Way to go, killer!"

Although it was clearly intended as a compliment, this last remark sent Ron's mind into overdrive. He suddenly found himself being assaulted by waves of mental images, and his stomach began to churn. Images of the deceased henchman surged to the front of his consciousness, revealing every gruesome detail. The way he hung limp in his harness, the blood on the windshield, the way his uniform seemed to sink into the gaping depression that had once been his chest: All of these images were his to savor once again.

The sudden change in Ron's demeanor did not go unnoticed by Commander Tomlin, and the older man instinctively knew what was bothering the young pilot in front of him.

"Made your first kill today, did you?" he asked sympathetically.

"Yes sir." Ron replied meekly.

"Did you actually see him?"

Ron simply nodded.

Tomlin leaned back, folding his hands thoughtfully in front of himself. He carefully considered his next words before speaking once again.

"It's a heck of a thing, killing a man." He observed almost philosophically. "You take away everything he has, and everything he's ever gonna have."

"Yeah, but… but they're the _enemy._" Ron sputtered with a quavering voice. "Isn't it weird to feel this way about it? I mean, don't they have it coming?"

"We all have it coming, son." Tomlin stated, his voice hanging low in the air. "We all have it coming."

For several moments, the two men simply remained in place, pondering the meanings of the words that had just been spoken. There was a profound wisdom in those words: A wisdom derived from a lifetime of fighting the good fight, both in victory and defeat.

Finally, Commander Tomlin broke the silence.

"Better go change into your fatigues, son." He suggested. "Full debriefing will be in the ready room in ten. Dismissed."

"Yes _sir!_" Ron snappily replied, firing off a picture-perfect salute. Then, he turned on his heel and walked briskly out of the office, making a B-line for his locker. He was still in the game, and he was loving every minute of it.

* * *

**Author's Notes:**

Okay, I know all the purists will undoubtedly point this out, so let me explain right now. The Grumman F-14 Tomcat is actually a two-person aircraft. It's designed to be operated by a pilot, sitting in front, and a Radar Interception Officer (RIO), sitting immediately behind. For the purpose of this story, however, I'm making the assumption that G.J modified the controls of their Tomcats to allow for one-man operation.

This isn't to say that the Tomcat described here is a single-seat plane, however. It still retains all of its original controls, but now boasts the versatility that comes with being both one and two-man operable.

_Hammerhead Stall:_ When Ron asks Shego how well she hammerheads, he is referring to something called a "Hammerhead Stall." This is an aerobatic maneuver in which an aircraft climbs vertically, allowing itself to stall out with its nose pointing straight up in the air. Then, as gravity begins to pull the plane back down, the pilot rotates his craft into a violent series of flips and rolls. It's a difficult maneuver, normally reserved for highly experienced pilots. Remember kids: Don't try this at home.

_AIM-9 Sidewinder:_ A short-range air-to-air missile first deployed by U.S. forces during the Vietnam War, the Sidewinder is a heat-seeking weapon with a deadly reputation. In use by many western nations today, its reputation for reliability and effectiveness makes it a mainstay of almost any modern air force.

_Split-S:_ A classic dogfighting maneuver first developed during World War One, the "Split-S" is a means of reversing direction without sacrificing too much in terms of speed. To execute this maneuver, a pilot first rolls his aircraft onto its back, then pulls back on the stick, sending the plane into a looping dive. The pilot finally releases the turn when he has returned to an upright position, now flying in the opposite direction, and at a lower altitude. The name comes from the fact that when the maneuver is diagrammed in profile, it resembles the bottom half of a letter "S."

_Missile Chase:_ The scene were Ron flew through the hangar and destroyed it with the missile was inspired by the opening scene from the movie "Octopussy." Think of it as my personal gift to all of you James Bond fans out there. _(I take my nacos shaken, not stirred.)_

_Bingo Fuel:_ A military term meaning that a pilot only has enough fuel left for the return trip to his base, and must turn back.

_S-3 Viking:_ First built by Lockheed in 1972, the S-3 was designed for the role of anti-submarine warfare. As time progressed and the U.S. Navy's needs changed, however, the airframe was adapted to the role of in-flight refueling tanker. Although currently being phased out in favor of the more advanced F/A-18/F Super Hornet, the Viking remains in active deployment at this time. Known for the distinctive, high-pitched whine of its engines, the Viking is often said to sound like a vacuum cleaner, and has long since been labeled with the nickname "Hoover."

_F-18 Hornet:_ The McDonnell Douglas F-18 Hornet is a modern all-weather carrier-capable strike fighter jet, designed to attack both ground and aerial targets. Designed in the 1970s for service with the U.S. Navy and U.S. Marine Corps, the Hornet is also used by the air forces of several other nations. Intended as a replacement of the McDonnell F-4 Phantom, the Hornet has been the aerial demonstration aircraft for the Navy's _Blue Angels_ flight team since 1986.

Well, our boy has just had his first real taste of aerial combat, and has somehow lived to tell the tale. Whether it was luck or skill, who can say: And more importantly, who cares? After all, as Ben Hogan once said, "I'd rather be really lucky than really good."

Be sure to tune in for our next episode, when an Eagle gets his wings!

As always, feel free to review.

Ta-ta for now!

_Nutzkie…_


	11. An Eagle Gets His Wings

**Required Legal Mumbo-Jumbo:**

For the record, I don't own KP. The same goes for any characters, settings, descriptions or catch-phrases which you may or may not happen to recognize from the show. Any and all attempts to sue me will be met with severe disappointment. (Can't get blood from a turnip, folks.) Employees and their families are ineligible. Must be 21 or older. No purchase necessary. Void where prohibited. See store for details. Prosecutors will be violated. All rights reserved. So there!

* * *

**- Chapter Eleven -**

Once you got to know it, San Francisco was a truly wonderful city.

Kim had only visited The City by the Bay once before, and that trip had been within the context of a mission. With all the trouble of fighting Shego and Senior Senior Junior, there hadn't been much time left for sightseeing.

Now, with her schedule free from the constraints of freak fighting, she and her family could simply relax and enjoy all that this cosmopolitan metropolis by the sea had to offer.

Thinking back, Kim reflected on the events that had brought her to this place.

Arriving home from her family's aborted trip to Japan had been a mixed bag. On the one hand, she was overjoyed at having finally found Ron, and in knowing that he was safe and in good spirits.

On the other hand, he was still half-a-world away, and she was still alone.

For reasons she couldn't fathom, this made her feel even worse than before. Somehow, the act of seeing him without being able to touch him troubled her mind and tortured her soul in ways that she couldn't comprehend. It was his touch, after all, that she wanted, indeed craved, more than any other thing about him. His large hands, hands that could prepare gourmet meals from scratch and summon mystical swords from thin air, always had a gentle touch when it came to her. Feeling his tender embrace in this way was what both restored and sustained her, she had learned. She needed his gentle touch.

In her dreams, Ron would come to her. She would see the two of them standing alone on a tropical beach, the great outline of an aircraft carrier silhouetted against a crimson sunset sky. No words were spoken in this dream world, as none were needed. The two of them simply held each other close, basking in each other's presence, allowing the pure joy of being together to wash over them like waves over the beach.

Then, without fail, the grating screech of the alarm clock would once again drag her reluctantly from Ron's warm embrace, and into the waking world. (She _sooooo_ needed to get her self a hammer.)

Then there had come the fateful day one week ago, when she had returned home from school. It had been a day like any other, filled with the usual high school trifles. Bonnie was scheming, Barkin was screaming, and the hallways were filled with the usual assortment of lethargic, comatose-looking underclassmen. All in all, it had been the definition of "routine."

All that changed, however, when she mounted the ornate iron staircase to her attic bedroom and found a new email message waiting on her computer. In itself, this was by no means unusual, but the contents of that message had turned her entire world around.

The message had been from Ron, saying that he had completed his training and would be returning with the ship in a week's time. Upon docking in San Francisco, there would be a graduation and induction ceremony on board, and he was being allowed to invite a small contingent of guests for the event. Naturally, she and her family were the first ones he thought of inviting, after his own parents, of course.

"_PS: Would you mind running interference with my mom for me?"_ Ron had finished his message by asking. _"When she finds out where I've really been all this time, she'll probably strap me down to a catapult and launch me off the bow, sans airplane."_

Of course Kim had been more than happy to lend an assist in this department.

And so the Possible family found themselves in the city where Tony Bennett had left his heart. So far, they had been in the city for two days, and had seen a multitude of sights. They had visited Fisherman's Wharf, rode a cable car, climbed to the top of Coit Tower, and toured Alcatraz Island. It was during this last activity that a young boy in the crowd had recognized her, and had asked if any of the villains she busted had been sent there. Kim had been forced to explain that the facilities on the island were dated a little before her time in the crime fighting business.

She had also suggested that the family might want to consider leaving her brothers there for the duration of the trip, but this had simply earned her an ice-cold glare from her mother.

The highlight of the trip so far had occurred the evening before, when the entire family had decided to take a sunset stroll across the Golden Gate Bridge.

Kim doubted that she had ever seen such a beautiful sight. The golden rays of the setting sun turned the sea into a glittering, gilded mass, and reflected an entire spectrum of color off of every island and object in the bay.

To her left, oil tankers could be seen passing through the San Pablo Strait, on their way to the massive oil refineries near the town of Martinez. Straight ahead, Alcatraz loomed large in the bay, its steep, rocky slopes capped off by the lighthouse tower and massive cell house building that she had visited just that afternoon. To the right was San Francisco itself, and beyond that lay the east bay communities of Oakland, Berkeley, and the like.

She was so captivated by the grandiose view, that she almost didn't notice the large, dark mass gliding silently beneath her. A startled gasp escaped her lips when, upon looking down, the scene was not one of shimmering waves, but of a dark black shape ringed in an outline of broken red and white stripes. It took several moments for her mind to register what she was seeing.

The Thor had arrived, and was now entering the bay, moving slowly and silently beneath her. She marveled at the sheer size of the vessel, and her heart leapt with the knowledge that somewhere on that floating fortress, Ron was waiting for her.

For half an instant, she actually considered vaulting over the railing and leaping to the flight deck below. Fortunately, the more rational parts of her brain quickly took charge of the situation, and any further thoughts regarding such fool-hearted behavior were banished without question.

Instead, she leaned on the rail with a lovesick sigh, and watched as the great ship, followed closely by its two escorts, entered the bay and turned right, slowly drifting southward along the shoreline toward their moorings at the Hunter's Point Navy Yard in the southern outskirts of the city.

"_Tomorrow..."_ She had told herself. _"Tomorrow I'll see Ron again."_

And so she had come to the place she now found herself in.

Sitting in the back seat of her family's rented mini-van, cruising along one of the city's ubiquitous freeways, looking out at the industrial landscape that was the south side of San Francisco. It was an area of minor to moderate hills, packed with factories and warehouses of all shapes and sizes. Out the left-hand side of the van, the light towers of Candlestick Park could be seen over the rooftops, and beyond that lay the sparkling gray waters of San Francisco Bay. A glance to the south revealed their destination this day, the sky-scraping masts of the great ships visible even from this distance.

For Kim, sitting still was almost impossible, her personal motto not withstanding. The anticipation of seeing Ron again, (really, truly _seeing_ him), after all this time was downright unbearable. She didn't know what she was going to do to him when they were finally reunited, but she figured that if she tried it back at school, they would both be in detention until their twenty-fifth birthdays.

Feelings of excitement only increased as the van's navigation system directed them off of the freeway and onto a side street. Directions on the in-dash video screen guided them through the labyrinth of oddly-intersecting avenues and alleys before finally depositing them at the main gate to Hunter's Point. A quick check of identification by a uniformed security guard, and they were in.

"Man, doesn't the weather in this city just beat all?" James Possible observed as he pulled the van to a stop in a parking lot near the docks. (Apparently a private lot was the only place in the entire city that one could find a space.) "Where we're standing, it's bright and sunny, and yet just a short ways away there's a fog bank so thick you could almost lean on it."

"Uh, dad… That's not a fog bank." Jim observed.

"That's a ship." Tim completed.

Craning their necks upward, the family could see Tim's point. The massive wall of gray steel seemed to stretch for a mile in either direction. It stretched upward, towering overhead and arcing outward as it soared, until it finally transitioned into a series of tiered batteries, bristling with a variety of anti-aircraft guns.

Setting atop this gargantuan monolith of gray steel was an island-like superstructure that sprouted a varied assortment of radar aerials and communication arrays. To top it all off, there was a tripod-style main mast, towering so high that it seemed to scrape the heavens themselves. From its cross-members hung a plethora of signal flags, comprising every color of the rainbow.

Five jaws now stood agape at the massive metal megalith before them. The carrier was so mind-bogglingly huge that it seemed impossible the thing could even float. It was a floating city: An entire metropolis unto itself… Fast, mobile and lethal.

Several hundred yards to the south, the Thor's escort ships, _Boreas_ and _Notus,_ could be seen docked abreast. These twin battleships sported some of the most modern weaponry afloat, but still found space on their decks for some decidedly old-fashioned hardware. There were five-inch guns in several locations along the flanks, and so many 40 and 20 millimeter cannon that the ships resembled floating porcupines.

But the most impressive features of these massive vessels were the guns of the main batteries.

With each ship sporting four turrets of four guns each, the main batteries dominated the superstructures of these mighty leviathans. Twenty inches wide at their muzzles, they could launch a 3,000-pound shell 25 miles distant. It was a capability that struck fear into the heart of even the most determined enemy, and made opponents think twice before attacking.

And, it made a great deal of sense, after all. These ships were built as moving monuments to visual intimidation, and nothing says "leave me alone" quite like guns the size of factory chimneys.

"C'mon! Let's go check it out!" Jim shouted, breaking into a run toward the carrier in front of them.

"Yeah! I hear they have those new 'dial-a-yield' nukes on board!" Tim concurred, following close behind his twin.

"Is anyone here concerned about turning those two animals loose onboard a ship with a working nuclear reactor?" Kim asked rhetorically.

"We could always take them down to the battlewagons and let them play 'human cannonball.'" James observed, earning an elbow in the ribs, courtesy of his wife.

After a short walk, the family found themselves standing at the base of the gangway, where a young man in uniform stood by to greet them.

"Sergeant Ray Beeze, at your service." The young man with the close-cropped haircut succinctly greeted. "May I inquire as to the nature of your visit today?"

"The Possible family." James replied in his characteristically friendly tone. "Here by invitation, we are."

Sergeant Beeze quickly scanned through a series of papers on a clipboard he had been carrying. Running his finger down what Kim assumed to be a guest list of sorts, he abruptly stopped his search upon finding the desired information.

"Ah yes… Registered guests of Lieutenant Commander Stoppable, I see. Follow me, please?"

And with that, Beeze turned briskly on his heel and proceeded up the gangplank with the family following quickly behind. Rushing to keep pace with her family and their guide, Kim's mind kept repeating a phrase that sounded so completely strange to her, no matter how many times she said it:

"_Lieutenant Commander Stoppable…"_

The small group was soon making their way through a labyrinth of corridors and passageways, with Beeze pointing out the functions of various rooms along the way. Kim couldn't help but be amazed by the complexity of her surroundings.

The Thor truly was, for all practical purposes, a floating city, and with a full-time population of nearly 6,000 people, it had the same needs as any land-based community.

Beyond the basic necessities of sleeping, eating, and activities that normally follow eating, there were needs for various support services, and for all the creature comforts that make civilized life possible. In addition to kitchens, bathrooms and sleeping quarters, there were workshops and supply rooms for maintaining the countless pieces of equipment the ship needed for its operations. There were laundry facilities, recreation lounges, armories and munitions magazines, a daily newspaper, a sick bay with a lab, pharmacy, and full surgical facilities, a brig, exercise rooms, and an internet café for keeping in touch with loved ones back home.

For Kim, this last item was a little more poignant than the rest. After what she had gone through looking for Ron, the thought that he had not contacted her had at first sent her into whole new degrees of tweakdom.

It was only after having Wade research the Eagles' organization for her that she had finally calmed down. The Eagles may have been somewhat reluctant to advertise themselves, but they weren't a black ops program by any stretch. There was a great deal of information to be found on-line, provided that one was computer savvy enough to know where to look for it.

By now, Kim knew of the organization's charter, and understood their mission and their goals. She knew their systems of rank and insignia, and understood just what sorts of operations they would normally undertake.

She also knew of their policy toward the anonymity of their recruits. While she didn't fully understand the reasons behind this policy, she knew it was a strict requirement, and that the lack of communication wasn't Ron's fault. She could forgive him for that sin, now. She could forgive him for everything.

After several more minutes of walking through what seemed to be an endless maze of corridors, Beeze lead the family through a set of double doors and into the cavernous hangar deck. To both sides of the large, open space, there were rows of parked aircraft. Several different models were present, some of which she even recognized. There were fighters, bombers, air tankers and AWACS planes. Toward the stern was a row of helicopters, and some of the airframes sat in various stages of disassembly, indicating ongoing maintenance procedures. Her brothers were soon dashing excitedly about, exploring the high-tech machines, and forcing her mother to corral them as best she could.

When Sergeant Beeze finally stopped, he was standing in front of an aircraft that Kim most definitely recognized. She had seen this exact plane once before in her life, approximately two weeks ago, in the skies east of the Philippines.

The Tomcat was just as she remembered; its twin red tails bearing the insignia of an eagle and a thunderbolt, and its wingtips adorned with her own logo. To the front there was the shark's mouth and "Sky Rat" nose art, and a pair of diagonal yellow stripes, outlined in black, signifying the position of a team leader.

What caught her attention most of all, however, were the words painted out in neat script just below the Plexiglas canopy. Toward the front of the cockpit was a simple phrase, split into two lines:

Lt. Cmd. Ron Stoppable

"_Mad Dog"_

Then her eyes drifted back along the fuselage, toward the RIO position. She gasped when she read what was painted there:

Ens. Kim Possible

"_Red Fox"_

Ron had somehow managed to secure for her a commission, and in future missions, they would be flying together. Her entire soul was warmed by the thought that after all those years of Ron watching her back, she would soon be watching his. The idea of being able to finally return the favor just felt right.

As Kim studied the sleek and menacing plane in close detail, her father started to let his own technical curiosity get the better of him. It wasn't long before he was bombarding Beeze with a laundry list of questions.

"So it has closeable intakes, then?"

"Correct, sir." Beeze replied in a formal and official tone. "While on the ground, the engines breath through vents on top of the fuselage. That way we don't have debris being sucked into the compressor blades."

"Neato! And how did you guys manage to boost the radar's range so dramatically?"

"I'm sorry, sir, but that particular information is classified."

James Possible groaned lightly with disappointment, then pressed on.

"Okeedokee, then… What can you tell me about the inertial guidance system?"

"OFFICER ON DECK!" Beeze shouted in reply. It seemed like a ferociously strange answer to his question.

He was about to rephrase when he noticed that Beeze had drawn himself to attention and was now saluting someone or something behind him. The entire family turned around to face this unexpected newcomer, and nearly fainted upon doing so.

There, standing not ten feet away… was Ron. Wearing an immaculate three-piece dress uniform, and standing with his shoulders back and his chest out, he was positively resplendent in his appearance.

The dark-blue, double-breasted coat was form fitting and sported a pair of golden thunderbolts on its lapels. On his shoulders he wore the stripes and rockers of a lieutenant commander, and from his right shoulder hung two braided, yellow loops of cord. On his left breast there was a glimmering, golden pair of shielded wings superimposed over an anchor: the mark of a fully qualified carrier pilot. Below the wings, a small cache of medals hung from pieces of brightly colored ribbon.

From his left hip hung an ornate dress sword, and from his right, a silver-plated automatic pistol with an ivory grip. Topping off the entire ensemble was a brilliant white officer's cap with a braided band, a shielded eagle emblem, and "scrambled eggs" on the brim.

No longer was he the awkward, shy and easily frightened little boy that Kim had grown up with. Now, he was a warrior: Forged in the crucible of combat and hardened by battle. He was a pillar of strength, a bastion of confidence, and a force to be reckoned with all his own. He was, in every sense, transformed.

"At ease, Sergeant." He said flatly, stepping forward to face the still saluting man.

Beeze relaxed himself into a "parade rest" position.

"I take it there weren't any difficulties?" Ron asked.

"No sir. Everything went as directed, sir." Beeze replied.

"The twins didn't cause you any trouble?" Ron inquired, shooting a sideways glance at Jim and Tim.

"Nothing I couldn't handle, sir." Beeze stated matter-of-factly. "I am trained for combat, after all."

"With those two on the loose, you'd better be." Ron chuckled, earning a double-barreled glare from the boys. "Excellent work, Sergeant. You are dismissed."

"Yes sir! Thank you, sir!" Beeze responded, snapping to attention and saluting once again before briskly walking away, leaving Ron and the Possibles alone in the cavernous space.

As Ron turned to watch the Sergeant walk away, Kim tried desperately to comprehend what she had just witnessed. Throughout his entire conversation with Beeze, (except for the crack he made about her brothers), his face had been taut and solid, showing no sign of emotion. His mannerisms and demeanor seemed so cold and serious to her. His entire image was something that she could only describe as being one of "professional intensity." He was no longer the young man she remembered… He wasn't the person she had fallen in love with.

Then, once Beeze had retreated from sight, Ron turned to face her family once again…

_And that was when she saw it._

The very instant that the young Sergeant was out of sight, Ron changed. The stone-cold expression on his face melted away, morphing into one of his trademark goofy grins. His body quickly relaxed, regaining some of the characteristic slouch that had become all but his trademark over the years. He stuffed his hands casually into his pockets, raised a playful eyebrow, and flashed a bemused smile.

This was the Ron she remembered. The Eagles may have given him some fancy new threads and a strong sense of both duty and dignity, but underneath it all he was still the same loveable loafer he had always been. The gentle spirit, the playful attitude, the casual approach to life: it was all still there. He was still her Ron, and when he wasn't busy flying or administering to the men under his command, it was this side of him that would always shine through the brightest.

Until this moment, there was something that Kim had never quite understood. She had seen the footage on the evening news: Scenes of teary-eyed wives, mothers and girlfriends rushing out to greet their young men returning home from war. As a person who valued level-headedness and self control in her own life, she always winced at such emotional displays, struggling to comprehend just what forces could turn an otherwise mature and responsible adult into such a babbling, incoherent ball of angst.

But now, seeing her soldier standing there before her, she finally understood.

Without even realizing what she was doing, Kim suddenly dashed forward in a full-out sprint. Launching herself into the air, she nearly knocked both of them to the deck as she wrapped her arms around his neck and her legs around his waist, capturing his lips with a kiss that threatened to turn his tonsils inside out.

This was the moment she had spent three, long, agonizing months waiting for. Her soul had yearned for this moment so much that it sometimes hurt, but now it was finally here. To see him, to feel him, to have his scent fill her nose, to have the taste of his lips play across hers: This was what she had been missing for so long. As she wrapped herself tightly around him, and felt him respond in kind, a wave of euphoria washed over her. This was her place: A magical place where she would always feel safe, where she would be forever free to be herself, and where she would always be loved unconditionally. She was, in a very real way, home.

For several long, magical moments, she simply embraced Ron in this way, never wanting to let him go. It wasn't until she heard the louder-than-necessary clearing of a throat behind her that she realized what a spectacle she was making of herself. Slowly, reluctantly, she released Ron and returned to her own two feet.

"Sorry." She softly said, her face quickly turning a color to match her hair.

"_Meh…_ No big." Ron smiled dismissively. "I know how it is… Chicks dig the uniform."

The remark earned him a playful punch on the stripes.

Then her arms were around him again, this time simply holding him close to her. Burying her face into his shoulder and weeping softly into the epilates of his coat, she felt something that she had not felt during all of those agonizing months. There was a sense of belonging, an inner-connectedness, a feeling of unity that existed only between them, and no one else. In some strange, Zen-like way, Ron completed her. Without him, she was only half there: struggling to find her way through an emotional wilderness on a starless night with no compass to guide her. But when he was with her, she was whole, and all things became possible. Without each other, they would have undoubtedly grown to be ordinary people, leading ordinary lives and dealing with ordinary problems. But when they were together, they were something truly extraordinary.

Holding him tightly against herself, Kim could sense other changes in Ron as well. Even through the multiple layers of fabric that comprised his uniform, she could feel the taut, rippling muscles of his back. His shoulders were broader and more firm they ever were before. His chest had filled out considerably, and she could feel the strength in his arms as he embraced her. The geeky doughboy she had grown up with was gone, and in his place stood a strong, fit, proud man. The ugly duckling had been transformed into the elegant swan she had always known him capable of becoming, even if she had never expected him to actually achieve it.

Finally, after more than a minute, Kim looked up into the two chocolate-brown orbs that seemed to captivate her very soul, smiling serenely at the lopsided, goofy grin that met her own adoring gaze. She didn't know what to say in this sitch, but soon found words forming of their own volition.

"Welcome home, sailor." She whispered softly.

"Well, with a greeting like that, it's certainly good to be back." Ron smiled in return, continuing to hold her close to him. "Thanks for handling my mom, by the way."

"_Pffft…_ So not the drama." Kim dismissively replied. "Once I explained the whole sitch, she was totally cool with everything."

"Well that's certainly a relief." Ron said with a sigh. "I was worried she would try to pitch me overboard or something. And the flight deck on this tub is eighty feet off the water!"

"Speaking of your parents, are they here yet?"

"Yeah. They got here about an hour ago. I think they're up on deck waiting for the ceremony to start."

"Shouldn't you be doing the same?"

"Shouldn't we both?"

"Good point."

"Well then, just go through those doors over there," Ron directed. "Take the stairs to the right, go up four decks, and follow the signs."

"It's your ship." Kim responded. "You're the boss."

"Yeah, well… Don't let the Admiral hear you say that." Ron chuckled.

"Or your fellow officers, for that matter." Another voice suddenly rang out.

Kim and Ron both spun around to see a quartet of uniformed individuals walking toward them. From the shoulder patches, it was clear that they all held the same rank as Ron.

"Well aren't you going to introduce us, Commander?" the man furthest to the left inquired.

"Oh yeah, right." Ron stuttered. "Guys, this is my totally bon-diggity girlfriend, Kim Possible."

"Wow, the legend herself." The officer observed. "It's good to finally meet you… Although between your press clippings and how Stoppable here tends to go on talking about you all the time, I feel like we've already met."

"I hope he was saying good things." Kim commented, smiling and shaking the officer's hand. "And you would be?"

"This is Al 'Viper' Fannomega." Ron said, introducing the officer before her. "And moving from left to right we have Max 'Quicksilver' Welhaus, Anita 'Valkyrie' Ficks, and Perry 'Eight-Ball' Anthrust. They're the other team leaders from my squadron."

"Team leaders?" Tim asked curiously.

"The Red Tails consist of twenty aircraft." Perry explained. "The unit is then subdivided into five teams of four ships each. This way, if we need to split up in combat, we know who goes with who."

"Each team has a designated leader." Max continued. "We're identified by the twin shoulder loops on our uniforms."

"And also the twin stripes on your planes." Kim observed.

"Correct! I see you've been doing some research." Max observed. "Assistant team leaders have a single loop."

"So who's in charge of the whole she-bang?" Tim inquired.

"Squadron leader is Commander Argus." Al informed the group. "You want to find him? Just look for the guy with three loops."

"So Ron is a team leader, then?" Jim asked with more than a little disbelief evident in his voice.

"This ain't last night's spaghetti, dude." Ron replied, reaching across himself to run a finger through the two loops hanging from his right epilate. "You're talkin' to the man with the mad pilot plan."

"Yeah, just like you _planned_ to put that laser-guided bomb through the officer's latrine during training?" Anita asked with a sly grin.

"I thought we agreed never to talk about that over open channels." Ron growled through gritted teeth. "And who the heck puts a porta-potty that close to a live-fire range, anyway?"

"Well, I don't think you've got much to worry about, Mad Dog." Max observed. "Nobody was hurt, and with the level of destruction, the brass had nothing to go on."

"_Literally."_ Anita panned with a smile and a chuckle.

"Yeah, _real_ funny." Ron groused, folding his arms over his chest. "You guys are a regular 'Rat Pack.'"

"Just keepin' it real, rookie." Al called out as the four of them turned to walk away. "Now get your greenhorn keester up on deck, already! The show starts in ten!"

"On my way!" Ron shouted in return before turning back to Kim and her family.

"Well, I guess we'd all better be going." He observed.

"Good call, _Lieutenant Commander_." Kim replied.

"Yeah, the title sounds kind of strange, doesn't it? Ya' know… on me."

"Eh… Maybe a little at first, but I think it kind of suits you." Kim reassured him.

"You really think so?"

"Mmmm, hmmm… 'Lieutenant Commander Ronald Adrian Stoppable.'" Kim recited for effect.

"Hurk… _Heeeeey!_" a small voice squeaked, popping up onto Ron's left shoulder.

"Oh yeah… And don't forget Corporal Rufus." Ron added.

The naked mole rat drew himself to attention and snapped a tiny salute. He was wearing a uniform similar to his owner's, except his featured a single-breasted coat and a garrison cap. His small shoulders bore chevrons indicating the position of a corporal, and the entire ensemble elicited a raised eyebrow from Kim.

"Hey, he's part of the team." Ron replied with a shrug.

"Okay, I'll buy that." Kim relented. The little rodent just looked too cute in his new outfit for her to object. "So we need to get up on deck, then?"

"You remember the directions?"

"Yeah, through the door… turn right… up four decks… look for signs… got it."

"I'll see you on deck, then."

"Count on it, flyboy."

Kim then leaned in and drew herself up onto her toes, giving Ron a quick peck on the tip of his nose.

"Ah… booyah." He chuckled before turning and heading toward his designated position, Kim watching his receding form as he went.

It was so ferociously strange to see him like this, she had to admit. On one hand, he had changed so much. He was stronger, tougher, more skilled and more confident that he had ever been in his life. He acted as though he could stand against the elements themselves, and bend them to his will.

On the other hand, he was still the same exact person she had befriended on the pre-K playground all those years ago, and more recently, fallen in love with. He had the same boyish looks, the same _lazie faire_ attitude toward life, and the same quirky personality. He was the same person in heart, soul and spirit. The only difference was that now those things came wrapped in a new and vastly improved package.

_And oh, how she was going to enjoy unwrapping that package once they got home._

* * *

The salt breeze coming off of the bay was brisk that day. Not quite strong enough to be uncomfortable, but enough to let you know it was there. It swept in across the massive flight deck and up the side of the island superstructure, rippling and snapping the kaleidoscope of flags that hung from the mast.

…And the hair of one mildly tweaked teen hero.

Kim would occasionally rue the day that she had decided to wear her hair long, and a windy day like this was just such an occasion. It would flip and swirl randomly in the breeze, frequently throwing stray locks directly into her face. She soon found herself wondering what would happen if she ever cut her hair short.

Well that was easy: She would look like her mother.

"_Then again,"_ she thought to herself, _"maybe long hair isn't all THAT bad."_

Reaching down to pull a scrunchie from her purse, she quickly drew her hair back into a ponytail. For the time being she would need to force such hair-related issues from her mind, she thought. The induction ceremony was about to start, and she wasn't going to let anything stand in the way of her enjoying this moment.

She was standing with her family along an area of the ship that the crew called "Vultures' Row:" A catwalk, high up on the superstructure, providing a grandstand view of the festivities below. And what a view it was…

The scene before her was one of supreme organization. To the aft section of the flight deck, the enlisted personnel were arrayed in neatly in rank-and-file formation. To either side of the ship's mid section, the officers stood at ease, all of them facing toward a central aisle, which was marked by a long, red carpet. The carpeted pathway led down the center of the deck to a raised platform located on the bow, where several more officers sat waiting. Kim figured that these must be the commanding officers of the entire Eagles organization, as their uniforms glinted in the sunlight, displaying more decorations than a Christmas tree in Rockefeller Center.

Suddenly a brass band, which was situated toward the rear of the deck, started to play an introductory piece, and the freshly minted cadets were brought out: Raised up onto the flight deck by means of one of the four massive elevators that normally lifted aircraft up from the hangar deck below.

The melodic sound of over a dozen horns now fell silent, as the music transitioned into a marching cadence, played aloud by a single snare drum. The cadets marched in perfect time to the beat, moving quickly and in perfect sync with one another, taking up a position in the center of the flight deck, just ahead of the enlisted ranks.

The cadence stopped abruptly the instant that the cadets were in position, turning to face the bow with their final step. For the longest of moments, silence reigned across the expansive deck. No one dared cough or sneeze as the silence enveloped everything it touched, leaving only the sounds of seabirds, and of the wind whipping through the flags above.

Then, a uniformed man on the platform stepped up to a podium and began to speak.

"Since the dawn of recorded history," he stated loftily, "the eagle has symbolized those attributes that mankind has valued above all others. Strength, courage, skill, tenacity and rugged independence: These are the qualities embodied by this, the noblest of birds.

"Forty-five hundred years ago, as human civilization was first emerging from the fertile valley soils of the Tigris and Euphrates Rivers, the Sumerian city of Lagash chose a double-headed eagle as its symbol. Priests and politicians alike noted the bird for its powerful grace and dignity, and sought to adopt these characteristics as their own.

"Two thousand years ago, as the Roman legions marched across the breadth of the known world, they did so under the figure of a great golden eagle. 'Aquila,' as the image was known, came to be feared and respected throughout the empire, by friend and foe alike: Universally accepted as the embodiment of Rome's awesome and overwhelming power.

"On a cold Christmas day in the year 800, when Charlemagne was anointed Holy Roman Emperor, the image of the Lagash eagle was present, its two heads signifying the union of Rome with the western territories of Europe.

"In the early nineteenth century, French armies led by Napoleon Bonaparte marched into battles across Europe behind flagstaffs topped with golden imperial eagles.

"And on a sunny May afternoon in 1782, a small group of men chose the image of a mighty bald eagle to represent a new nation, conceived in liberty, and dedicated to the proposition that all men are created equal.

"And it was a small group of men from this nation, that on the eve of the greatest technological and scientific achievement in human history, chose this grandiose image to represent their ship, summoning all of its glory and power to convey the magnitude of their mission.

"And so it came to pass, that as over a billion people watched and waited with baited breath, the words of former Eagle Scout Neil Armstrong rained down from a quarter-million miles away:

"'_Houston, Tranquility Base here… The Eagle has landed.'_

"Man… was on the moon."

The speaker now paused for dramatic effect. Silence reigned, just as it had since the ceremony's beginning. Even the wind had seemed to calm during the speech, as if nature itself was paying homage to the events now transpiring in its presence.

"And it is the image of the mighty eagle that has brought us here today." He continued, following several moments of silence. "For when a dozen men gathered on a quiet, rain-soaked aerodrome in the winter of 1918, they chose this most majestic of images to represent a newly-formed brotherhood, dedicated to using the power of flight in defense of those principals that mankind holds most dear: Justice, liberty, and the right to breathe free. Protected under the wings of the great bird, this brotherhood grew and flourished, and ultimately became a proud and strong force of good: A shining beacon of hope and promise in a sometimes darkened world.

"Today, you stand poised to inherit this great tradition. You are the next generation in a long line of noble individuals: Individuals of different backgrounds and origins, but bound together by a common belief in freedom, and a common desire to defend it. You are the valiant knights of old reborn, honor-bound to protect the innocent, and to do battle with tyranny, wherever it may reside, and whenever it may strike.

"Your skills are sharp, your resolve is strong, and your duty is crystal clear. You are the keepers of the flame, broadcasting light and hope across a dark and stormy sea. You carry your torch aloft so that others may see, and that they too might someday carry the torch themselves. You are a bastion of everything that is good in the world, and you have earned your place of honor. Never forget this."

With these final words, the uniformed man silently turned and returned to his seat on the stage. Another man in uniform then stepped up to the podium, produced a piece of paper from the interior pocket of his coat, and began to read.

"The following individuals are hereby inducted into the Sacred Order of Thunder Eagles…" he stated loftily.

He then began to read aloud the list of names that he held in his hands. Speaking slowly and deliberately, he made his way through the alphabetical list, stating the name and rank of each new inductee. Kim's heart nearly skipped a beat when Ron's name was read. Somehow, it hadn't seemed real up until that point, but hearing his name listed amongst the others drove everything home for her. Ron was one of the elite now, and she had never been so proud.

After several minutes, the end of the list was reached. "May your skies be clear, and the wind always be at your back!" the man concluded, before returning to his seat. Once he was securely seated, another man, this one with white hair and the most heavily decorated uniform of anyone present, stood up and made his way to the podium. Even at his obviously advanced age, he walked upright and proud, his image conveying an aura of authority and dignity. His very presence commanded respect from those around him, and Kim surmised that he must be the commanding officer of the entire Eagles organization. Upon reaching the podium, he cleared his throat and began to speak.

"Since the founding of our honored society nearly a century ago, each new generation has recognized the greatest among them. They have singled out the one member of their group whose courage is unquestionable, whose commitment is beyond reproach, and whose skill surpasses all of his brothers in arms.

"This individual is singled out to serve as an example of what all Eagles should aspire to be. His excellence in ability, bravery, and dedication to duty show us what we can achieve, and continually remind us of what we believe, and why we are here.

"The 'Order of the Crimson Plumes' was created for just such recognition. This emblem of two crossed, red feathers is worn front and center on the uniform, signaling to all comers that they are in the presence of true excellence.

"It is therefore my distinct and personal honor to bestow this award upon the top graduating cadet from this year's program. Would you please step forward and be recognized, Lieutenant Commander Ronald Adrian Stoppable."

"Eagles… ATTEN-_HUT!!_" the call went out, causing each and every sailor and soldier on deck to suddenly draw themselves to attention. Ron stepped forward from the formation of cadets and began to stride down the red-carpeted aisle, his pace a perfect marching cadence.

Kim's jaw nearly hit rail in front of her when she saw. Knowing that Ron had successfully graduated had been a shocker in its own right, but for him to be tops in his class: Well that was just blowing the "weird-meter" clean off the scale.

Transfixed by Ron's strong and steady form as he marched proudly forward to receive his decoration, Kim was only peripherally aware of Ron's parents standing a few feet away. His mother's face was almost completely obscured by the digital camera that seemed glued to her eye; her rapid firing of the shutter giving the impression that she was shooting video rather than stills. His father simply leaned on the railing, beaming a radiant smile that broadcast the tremendous pride he felt in his progeny at this moment. No member of the Stoppable family had ever achieved anything as prestigious as this. Ron had reset the bar for excellence in his family, and if Gene were to die at this very moment, then he would have undoubtedly died content.

Standing tall with his shoulders back and his spine as straight as the mighty ship's mast, Ron stepped onto the stage and stood before the snow-haired man. The older officer momentarily regarded the young man before him, then motioned for an aide to bring him a small, velvet-covered box. From the box he produced a small pair of crossed feathers, and quickly pinned them to Ron's tie, just above the "V" of his uniform vest. The feathers were of ruby, inlaid in gold, and they shimmered in the brilliant afternoon sun. The effect was truly stunning.

"There are those few individuals who exhibit courage and heroism to such a great degree," the elder officer continued, "and then there are those who define what true heroism is. For these truly exceptional few, awards such as this will simply not suffice. Truly great courage deserves nothing less than truly great recognition."

He motioned for the aide again, who responded by producing another box. From this the admiral withdrew a medal that resembled a multi-pointed starburst, it's various regions inlaid in a breathtaking arrangement of red ruby, blue turquoise, and white diamond.

"For going above and beyond the call of duty," the man bellowed for all to hear, "for gallantry action against the enemy, and for having the courage to persevere against insurmountable odds, it is my distinct pleasure to award you the Distinguished Flying Cross."

Ron simply remained standing, straight as an arrow, as the admiral pinned the multi-colored medallion to his left breast, just below his wings.

Kim didn't need to be told the back-story behind this award. She knew this must be in reference to his dogfight against the Migs, in the skies east of the Philippines. He had saved her entire family on that glorious day, and now he was getting the recognition he so richly deserved. She smiled, and suddenly found herself fighting back tears. Ron had been a nearly constant presence in her life for as long as she could remember, and now, standing in this place, she was more proud of him than she had ever been of anyone before.

"_We can BOTH do the impossible."_ She smiled to herself, a single tear rolling down her cheek.

When the admiral was done, he said nothing. Instead, he simply took two steps back, and looked Ron squarely in the eyes. Then, he saluted.

"Saaaaaa-luuuuute… _HUH!_" was the command, as over six thousand uniformed individuals let loose with a perfectly synchronized salute, paying tribute to the man in their midst.

To his credit, Ron didn't say a word. There was none of his characteristic big headiness: there was no victory dance, no fist pumping, no victorious cry of "booyah." This was a solemn and sacred occasion, so obvious in its magnitude that even his easily distracted mind could comprehend its gravity.

Instead, he simply returned the admiral's salute, then turned on his heel and strode back to his position amongst the cadets. The assembled mass of uniformed men maintained their salutes for the entirety of his walk. They knew they were in the presence of greatness.

And almost as if to drive that point home, there came at that moment a monumental roar from above, as a formation of four F-8 Crusaders thundered overhead, their engines running at full afterburner. Like a quartet of winged demons, they streaked in from the south, flying directly down the line of the flight deck, then pitching up into a steep climb once they had passed. The screaming roar they produced was so loud that it threatened to split the sky itself wide open, and its vibrations could be felt throughout one's entire body.

Kim now found it difficult to refrain from calling out to Ron above the din. She wanted to stand on the rail and shout out to all those present, "That's my _boyfriend_ down there!" Fortunately, decorum and restraint finally won out, but the pride she felt in Ron, _her_ Ron, made it almost unbearable.

"_Well done, potential boy…"_ she thought silently to herself. _"Damn well done!"_

* * *

Clear blue skies slowly faded to amber yellow as afternoon turned to evening, inviting the breeze to intensify slightly, whipping briskly along the length of the flight deck. Across its expansive surface, dozens of men in brightly colored uniforms scurried about, directing traffic, readying planes, loading the catapults, and so forth. From a distance, the spectacle looked like a cross between an ant farm and a troupe of circus clowns.

To spite the advancing hour and the strengthening winds, Kim remained at her post on Vultures' Row. With the ceremony now concluded, deck crews had cleared away all signs of the event, returning the carrier to a much more normal state of appearance. The standing order was now to prepare the deck and launch the few remaining pilots who would be flying their own aircraft home with them.

Kim waited with baited breath. Any minute now, Ron was due to be called onto the deck and prepped. She had never seen a carrier launch in person before today, and she so desperately wanted to be there to see Ron off.

She was beyond disappointed, then, when her father tapped her on her shoulder.

"C'mon, Kimmie-cub." James Possible called his daughter. "We need to be getting to the airport. Two hours early for domestic flights, you know."

"Awwwww… _daddy!_" Kim whined. Ron's gonna be launching any minute now, and the airport isn't that far from here. Can we _please_ stay and watch?"

"I don't know, sweetie." James replied. "Evening traffic in this city can be a real…"

The remainder of his sentence died on his lips as he looked at his daughter. The enlarged eyes… the protruding lip… the shrugged shoulders… these were all indicative of only one thing: Kim had gone into full-blown "Puppy Dog Pout" mode.

"Ugh… Shields weakening… Back-ups off line…" he stammered, staring straight into the most sympathetic green eyes he had ever seen.

When he finally released a sound that was half sigh and half groan, Kim knew she had won the battle.

"Oh, thanks daddy!" she sang as she enthusiastically embraced her father. "Thank you so much!"

"Heh, you know me…" James replied. "Anything for my little Kimmie-cub."

"Excuse me, Miss Possible?" an anonymous voice from behind them suddenly interjected.

A young corporal was standing just a few feet away, and he held in his hands what appeared to be a package of some sort, wrapped in brown paper.

"Lieutenant Commander Stoppable requested that this be given to you." The young man stated, offering forth the parcel in question.

Kim took the package, not knowing what Ron was getting at by sending it to her. She looked back over the railing toward the flight deck, just in time to see Sky Rat being lifted up on one of the massive elevators.

Standing next to his plane and dressed in full flight gear, Ron began to slowly stalk his way around the sleek craft, inspecting every component, panel and protrusion. Slowly and methodically, he circled the entire plane, allowing no detail, no matter how small, to escape his attention.

Kim now returned her own attention to the package in her hands. Carefully unwrapping the paper, she exposed a piece of olive green fabric.

At first, she thought Ron had managed to find for her another pair of the green cargo pants that she loved so much, and whose discontinuance by Club Banana had disappointed her so. Then she dug a little deeper into the package, and realized that there was far more material present than one would expect from a simple pair of pants.

It was a jump suit, she soon discovered. And not just any jump suit, mind you, but a genuine flight suit, complete with insignia patches and the shoulder stripes of an Ensign. She quickly remembered the sight of her name painted on Ron's plane, with this very rank preceding it.

"The Lieutenant also wanted to give you this." The young corporal broke in once again, offering another object for Kim's inspection.

This time, the object was a helmet: A typical pilot's helmet, painstakingly airbrushed in the stylized likeness of a fox.

The detail of the work was downright exquisite. The texture of the fur was so realistic that one swore it would be soft to the touch, the whiskers seemed to bristle of their own accord, and then there were the eyes.

Two brilliant, soul-piercing green eyes seemed to actually follow you wherever you went. They made the work seem to have a life and a spirit all its own, and they could send chills down your spine, even on the warmest of days.

Not knowing what to say, Kim looked toward the flight deck once again. Ron was now standing directly in front of Sky Rat, looking straight at her. He crossed his arms casually over his chest, and shrugged his shoulders with a smile. The entirety of his expression and body language was completely unambiguous in the message it was conveying:

"_Well… Are you coming along or not?"_

Kim turned to look expectantly toward her father, ready to throw her PDP into overdrive if necessary.

James could do nothing more than smile at his only daughter. He knew that resistance was futile, and that any attempt to do so would only result in another dose of her irresistible pouting. Besides, her ticket home was refundable, and a buck saved is a buck earned, after all.

"Okay Kimmie-cub," James finally relented. "You go get suited up and we'll see you and Ronald when we all get back to Middleton."

"Oh thank you, daddy!" Kim squealed, throwing her arms around her father and giving him a peck on the cheek. "This means so much to me! You totally Rock!"

"I know, honey." James replied. "Just be safe up there."

"I will, dad." Kim responded, grabbing up the package and helmet, and running off to find a place to change.

* * *

Ten minutes later, a lithesome redhead, her flowing locks radiating in the golden hue of sunset, strode onto the flight deck. It had taken some doing to get into her new gear, not being familiar with the subtle nuances of a G-suit. Fortunately, a kind-hearted airman had been generous enough to show her what buckles attached to what straps, and within minutes she was ready to go.

Walking onto the open expanse of the flight deck with her helmet tucked snuggly under her left arm, Kim noted what a strange sensation the relatively simple act brought about. There was something about walking across a tarmac, she quickly discovered: You just naturally want to strut. She walked straight and true, with her shoulders back and her head held high, and just the slightest amount of swagger in her hips.

_Oh yeah… She could get used to this._

Making a B-line across the deck, her eyes never deviated from her chosen destination: The gleaming F-14 now parked just behind the number two catapult. The plane's high-gloss paint seemed to positively glow in the setting sun, and with it's wings now spread wide for take-off, it looked as though it could fly her to heaven itself.

And in a sense, she thought to herself, that was just what it was going to do. After three long, agonizing, heart-rending months, she was once again going to be sharing a plane ride in close proximity to Ron: Three months that had seemed like an eternity.

"_Is that really all it's been?"_ Kim asked herself, thinking back to their trip home from Go City after defeating Electronique. That had been the last time she had experienced physical contact with him until this afternoon, and in the intervening months, it seemed as though she had aged a lifetime. She had been across the highest emotional peaks and through the deepest valleys. She had circled the globe searching for him, dealing with more disappointment and heartbreak than she ever dreamed she could endure. There had been days when she had missed him so bad that it literally hurt, and lonely nights when she had cried herself to sleep. She had wanted him… she had needed him… and now she had him once again.

Walking briskly up behind Ron while his back was turned, she grabbed his shoulder and spun him around. Startled by the sudden intrusion into his pre-flight inspection, he didn't have time to respond before two slender arms had wrapped themselves around his chest, and a soft face was buried into the spot where his shoulder met his neck.

Kim released a deep sigh of pure contentment as Ron returned the embrace, practically melting into him in the process. This was what she had missed and longed for: To simply rest in Ron's arms, and let the world around them just fade away. This was what both her spirit and her soul craved, and now that this wish had been fulfilled, all was well with the world once again.

"So you ready to fly?" Ron asked softly, not yet breaking the embrace.

"In a minute, baby." Kim whispered in return. This was a truly magical moment for her, and she wasn't quite ready to release it to the realm of memories just yet.

She allowed the embrace to linger for several seconds longer before finally, reluctantly, releasing Ron from her grasp. When she did, her emerald green orbs were immediately captured by his chocolate browns, and the sense of completion and belonging that she had felt when she first embraced him on the hangar deck returned in full force. She flashed a smile that threatened to split her face in two.

"Okay, I'm ready." She informed Ron. "Let's blow this pop stand."

"With pleasure." He replied, turning to stride toward the cockpit. "Let's ace this place!"

Minutes later, both teens were strapped securely into the Tomcat's cockpit, and the protective bubble of the canopy was snapped closed around them. As the pair was loaded into the catapult and the blast deflector was raised into place behind them, Ron briefed Kim on what was about to happen.

"Okay now, just be ready." He stated emphatically. "This is going to be quite a ride, so you'll wanna hold onto something."

"_Pfft…_ As _if!_" Kim chided in return. "I jump out of airplanes on a regular basis, remember? I think I can handle a simple cata… _AAAAAAAAAAHHHHH!!_"

Caught off guard by the firing of the catapult, Kim was violently thrown back into her seat by the sudden burst of acceleration. Sky Rat raced down the deck at breakneck speed, dropping slightly as the deck fell away, then pitching sharply upward and rolling three times as the gear snapped firmly ino place beneath them.

It was with no small amount of embarrassment that Kim realized the screaming she was now hearing was her own.

Of course Ron's laughter coming from in front of her wasn't helping matters much, either.

"Just for the record, that was _so_ not funny, mister." She growled from her position in the rear of the cockpit.

Ron stopped laughing and swallowed hard. There were just some lines that no man should ever cross, and the enraged teen heroine behind him was one of those lines.

"Heh, yeah… I guess it wasn't." He said sheepishly, looking over his shoulder to flash a guilty smile.

Kim just smiled in return. He was so darn cute when he smiled like that… she just wanted to crawl into his lap and give him a kiss that would short out the avionics and send the whole plane into a tailspin.

As it was, she forced herself to be content with a view of the back of his head as he banked Sky Rat onto its left wing and began a long, sweeping turn across the southern end of the bay. To their right, they could see the skyline of San Jose, and to their left, the entirety of San Francisco bay was spread out beneath them, its shimmering waters, emerald islands and sparkling cities all staring back at them in crystal clarity.

Completing the turn, Ron brought the nose up slightly, climbing toward his designated cruising altitude for the flight. Now flying a compass heading of due north, he would hold this line until he reached 38,000 feet. Then he would turn the sleek bird to the east, and head toward the home he hadn't seen for nearly three months.

He felt his thoughts drifting toward images of that home when Kim's voice from behind him brought him back to the present moment.

"So, what gives with the invitation?" Kim asked with a smile.

"Oh, you mean 'why the ride?'" Ron inquired.

"Yeah, that would be it."

"Well, after all this time, I thought we needed some time to get re-acquainted." Ron replied with a shrug and a smile.

"_Hmmmm…_ I like the way you think." Kim cooed, loosening her harness to lean forward and snake her arms around Ron's shoulders.

"And besides," Ron continued, "I wanted to show you my office."

"Oh yeah… Your office." Kim responded playfully. "I like what you've done with the place, although it is a little light in the furnishings department."

"True," Ron responded in turn. "But what it lacks in amenities, it makes up for with the view." He flexed a thumb, indicating that Kim should look out the left side of the cockpit.

When she did, the sight that greeted her nearly took her breath away.

By this point they were directly over the San Francisco-Oakland Bay Bridge, and dead even with downtown San Francisco. From their current altitude, they could see the entirety of the glittering city below, and the vast expanse of the Pacific Ocean that lay beyond.

The sun was just now setting into the sea, turning the sparkling waters into a hue of pure liquid gold. The suddenly gilded sea reflected this golden aura back upward toward the heavens from which it had come, mixing with shades of vermilion and magenta, warm oranges, deep purples and soothing blues. Every shade of nature's grand palate was reflected in both the sea and the glass skyscrapers of the city skyline, while the familiar form of the Golden Gate Bridge seemed to take on an iridescence all its own, radiating a shade of peach that turned the earth and sea alive with an explosion of warmth and color.

"My God, Ron… It's… it's… _beautiful._" Kim stammered, finding it difficult to speak in the presence of such a stunning vision.

"Yeah… I know." Ron sighed, drinking the grandeur of the cosmic pageant. "I guess that's another reason I invited you along. I wanted you to see what I've been seeing all this time. Beauty deserves beauty, after all."

Kim smiled and tightened her arms around Ron. He had the sweetest ways of paying her compliments, and what made it better was that he always meant every word of it.

"Yeah, thanks for the invite." She purred. "I'm sorry I wasn't here to share it with you."

"But you were." Ron replied, reaching toward the cockpit's display panel. He tenderly pulled the wallet-sized photo from the glass screen and passed it back to Kim, who gasped when she recognized the image of herself in her cheer uniform. She somehow knew that Ron had been carrying this with him in the cockpit for the entire time they had been separated.

"You were with me every step of the way." Ron stated, a faint hint of emotion creeping into his voice.

Kim's embrace tightened even further as she realized just how much Ron meant this. She was his entire world, in more ways than she had ever previously dreamed she could be, and she now understood how difficult their prolonged separation had been on him.

She wasn't the only one who had been struggling over the past three months, she now knew. As hard as their separation had been on her, it had been just as hard for him: Perhaps even more so, as his situation was compounded by unfamiliar surroundings and a lifestyle that could not have been more foreign to him. For a quarter of a year, he had endured all of this, ultimately emerging triumphant in the end… And he had done it all for her.

As Sky Rat turned gently turned its tail toward the setting sun and raced eastward into the approaching night, Kim leaned forward to place her head on Ron's shoulder, and slowly began drifting off to sleep. Lulled by the monotonous drone of the engines and the steady pace of Ron's breathing, the veil of sweet slumber quickly descended over her. As the last vestiges of consciousness released her, Kim's final waking thought was of just how much she loved him.

* * *

**Author's Notes:**

_About San Francisco:_ As someone who has spent their entire life residing within a 90-minute driving range of San Francisco, I can assure you that my descriptions of the city are based on first-hand experience.

For those of you who aren't completely familiar with the geography of the bay area, San Francisco sits on the tip of a peninsula, with the Pacific Ocean to its west, the bay to its east, and the Golden Gate Channel to its north. All-in-all, it's probably one of the worst places to locate a major metropolitan center, but the city is where it is, so there's really no point in harping about it... spilt milk and what not.

It is the northern section of the city, nearest the bridge, that is home to all of the tourist hot spots and picture-postcard vistas. Attractions such as Telegraph Hill, the Hyde Street cable car line, the Maritime Museum, Fisherman's Wharf, China Town, Pier 39 and the Transamerica Pyramid are all in this part of the city.

As you move south down the peninsula, however, things start to become decidedly less scenic. South of Van Ness Avenue, you encounter lower income neighborhoods such as the Mission and Tenderloin districts, and the Balboa Park neighborhood. Move even further south, past the China Basin area, and the landscape turns to light industrial, with vast stretches of warehouses, metal fabrication plants, machine shops and small factories. This is the San Francisco that very few tourists ever get to see.

Along the eastern shore of the peninsula in this area is a large spit of land known as Candlestick Point, and it is from this geographical feature that the adjacent Candlestick Park takes its name. (Okay… So they've technically got a corporate sponsor now, and they're calling it 3Com, or Monster Park, or whatever the hell they're calling it this week… but to me it will always be "The Stick!" You got that, corporate America? Good! _…End of rant_)

_Hunter's Point:_ Visible from the south parking lot of Candlestick Park, Hunter's Point was a major shipyard of the U.S. Navy going back to the days of World War Two. In an era when San Francisco was the official home of the American Pacific Fleet, Hunter's Point was a vital hub of operations, its large dry-docks and servicing facilities hosting everything from cargo ships and destroyer escorts to battlewagons and aircraft carriers.

Activities at the point began to wind down when the bulk of Pacific Fleet operations were transferred to San Diego several years ago. Today, Hunter's Point has been decommissioned by the Navy, and is undergoing a major redevelopment effort, undertaken by the city of San Francisco itself.

_Boreas and Notus:_ These names come from Greek mythology. To the ancient Greeks, Boreas and Notus were the gods of the northern and southern winds, respectively. Boreas was known for bringing cold winter air into the region of the Mediterranean, while Notus was known as the bringer of unpredictable storms in late summer and autumn. The eastern and western winds were the domains of Eurus and Zephyrus.

And for those of you who are up on your naval history, you're probably still asking yourselves the question, _"Twenty-inch guns?"_

This is somewhat the product of my own overactive imagination. In the wonderful world of reality, the largest naval guns ever mounted are the 18.1-inch weapons carried by the Japanese super-battleship "Yamato" during the Second World War. Her sister ship "Musashi" was also intended to carry such armaments, but was instead fitted with 16-inch guns similar to those carried by the American Iowa-class battlewagons. It was intended that Musashi would later be upgraded to the larger 18.1-inch armaments, but she was lost at the battle of Sibuyan Sea before such work could be carried out. A third member of the Yamato class, the "Shinano," was converted into a super-carrier following the disastrous Battle of Midway, and never received battleship armaments.

_Names:_ Okay, so I had a little fun with the names in this chapter. Every author has a certain silly streak that he just needs to let out every so often. (If he doesn't, then he spontaneously combusts… or so I'm told.)

Have fun figuring out the hidden double-meanings, and think of it as my personal gift to all my tremendously wonderful readers. (Insert hideous kissing-sound here)

Also, as many of you have almost certainly figured out already, the name of the Red Tails commanding officer is my personal tribute to Commander Argus: One of the most talented and prolific writers in the entire KP fandom. If you haven't already checked his page out, do it! His "It Finally Happened" story arc kicks serious buttage.

_Chance-Vought F-8 Crusader:_ Originally designated the F8U, the Crusader was a supersonic, single-engine, carrier-based fighter built by the Chance-Vought Company: Makers of the famous F4U Corsair. First flown on March 25, 1955, the Crusader became legendary in the skies over Vietnam, acquiring an operational record surpassed only by that of the McDonnell F-4 Phantom. The last Crusaders, operated by naval reserve units, were decommissioned in 1987.

_Flight Deck Uniforms:_ The flight deck of an aircraft carrier can be a truly colorful environment, but this is not without its purpose. Every person on deck has a set of specific responsibilities, and the color of his uniform indicates to all others just what those responsibilities are.

White uniforms denote that the wearer is charged with enforcing safety protocols and administering to the injured in the event of an accident. Men in purple uniforms are known as "grapes," and are responsible for the fueling of aircraft on deck.

A blue uniform denotes traffic control, and the wearer is charged with regulating the movement of aircraft about the flight and hangar decks. Green uniforms operate the catapults and arresting gear, while a red uniform handles ordinance and munitions.

_The Airport:_ SFO, as San Francisco International Airport is known, is located on a strip of land along the shoreline of the bay, just a few miles south of Hunter's Point. Getting from one to the other is easily accomplished via the US-101 freeway.

Well, our heroes are back together, so the universe is back in balance once again. We're only one chapter away from the end now: A short epilogue wrapping everything up, and one that hopefully won't take too long to write.

I want to take this opportunity to thank every one who has read this piece, and especially everyone who thought enough of it to leave a review. Looking back, I'm shocked at how something I originally planned to be a six-chapter story has snowballed into a twelve-chapter labor that has already surpassed 58,000 words. I suppose I should also thank everyone for putting up with me in this way. I know I tend to run off at the keyboard sometimes, and I honestly hope I haven't left too many of you bored or overwhelmed.

And on a somewhat related note, with this chapter I officially surpass the 100,000 word mark on this website! (Does small victory dance with a rubber chicken.) (Sorry... It's a long story with a lot of personal issues involved.)

_Anyhooooo… _Enjoy the chapter and leave a review if the spirit moves you. Remember to wear asbestos gloves when flaming, and I'll see everyone when the final chapter hits the press.

And remember too: If you can't say something nice... then you're probably a professional movie critic.

_Nutzkie…_


	12. Epilogue

**Required Legal Mumbo-Jumbo:**

For the record, I don't own KP. The same goes for any characters, settings, descriptions or catch-phrases which you may or may not happen to recognize from the show. Any and all attempts to sue me will be met with severe disappointment. (Can't get blood from a turnip, folks.) Employees and their families are ineligible. Must be 21 or older. No purchase necessary. Void where prohibited. See store for details. Prosecutors will be violated. All rights reserved. So there!

* * *

**- Chapter Twelve -**

Springtime in the Rocky Mountains can be an unpredictable beast. Alternately hot, cold, windy, rainy and/or snowy, the weather seems to suffer from a perpetual case of bi-polar disorder, and can make event planning a tenuous art at best.

Fortunately for the residents of Middleton, Colorado, the weather this particular spring had been more agreeable than most. A nearly continuous stretch of warm, comfortable days had placed the entire community in a good mood, and the town seemed to be a friendlier place because of it.

None of this was lost on the student body of Middleton High School. Everyone seemed to be in good spirits as the school year began winding down toward its close. This held especially true for the members of the senior class: All of who realized that in just a few short weeks, they would be high-schoolers no more, forever free from the tedium and social cliques that had defined their very existences for so long.

And then again, some students had more to celebrate than others.

As the school's head varsity cheerleader stood in front of her locker, she wore a smile so bright across her face that it would have put the sun to shame. Grabbing the materials she needed for her third period class, her mind momentarily drifted to far more pleasant thoughts, and failed to notice the approach of another figure from behind her.

"Spill time, girlfriend!" Monique called out, jolting Kim out of her euphoric trance. "Hand over the four-one-one and nobody gets hurt!"

"Oh, hey Monique!" Kim replied, quickly regaining her composure. "I didn't hear you back there."

"Uh-huh. That's probably because you were off on your own little private vacation." The ebony-skinned beauty chided with a lascivious grin.

"Vacation? What vacation?" Kim asked, clearly confused.

"Your little mental vacation." Monique explained, her grin widening. "You were totally out in space just then."

"So _not!_" Kim retorted defensively.

"So… _so!_" Monique retaliated. "You were probably off lounging on some beach somewhere, soaking up the Ronshine."

"Well, for your information, I was… wha… _Monique!_ That is so… _errrgh!_" Kim replied, waving her hands defensively in front of her.

"Mmmm-hmmm, that's about what I thought." Monique said with a satisfied smile. "Check and mate… Point for me"

"So what's up?" Kim asked her best female friend, now desperately wanting to change the subject.

"Looking to get the down-low, baby girl." Monique replied. "Haven't gotten a chance to dish since before you split for the left coast."

"Well, you know how San Francisco is." Kim responded merrily. "Picture postcard perfect and all that."

"Uh-huh… The sight seeing ain't what I'm talking about." Monique retorted. "Now c'mon! Are you gonna give it up, or am I gonna have to get the dirty version from the gossip grapevine in the caf?"

"Well, if you must know…" Kim began.

"I must." Monique assured her.

"We met up with Ron on his ship."

"So how's he lookin'?"

"Beyond spankin'."

"_Sweeeeeeet!"_

"Then we watched the grad ceremony, Ron was decorated, and then we flew home together."

"Just the two of you?"

"Uh-huh."

"In a fighter?"

"Yeah. Ron's got his own plane now." Kim informed. "It's actually a pretty sweet ride."

"Ya' think he'll be going back to the scooter anytime soon?"

"Ordinarily no, but he's gonna find out that the scooter isn't quite how he remembered it."

"Your brothers tricked it out, didn't they?"

"Well, they did such a great job on my car, and keeping the little cretins occupied is pretty much the same as keeping them out of my hair."

"Good point."

"Yeah… Total two-for-one."

"So where is our resident Top Gun, anyway?"

"Oh, he's around here somewhere. He'll probably be passing by in a few minutes."

"I see. So I take it this means the loser made it back to town then, does it?"

Both girls now turned to face the uninvited participant in their conversation.

"Hello, _Bonnie_." Kim growled under her breath, spitting the last word as an oath.

"Hi yourself, Kim" the buxom brunette haughtily replied. "You were saying that the slobber hound has finally returned, were you?"

"Yes, Ron and I got back last night, thanks for asking." Kim replied, her voice dripping with venom.

"I see." Bonnie shot back. "You know, K., I figured you'd be just the sort of person to let such a golden opportunity slip by."

"What the heck are you talking about, B.?" Kim asked.

"The opportunity to trade up, of course!" Bonnie snapped, her irritation with the redhead growing stronger by the minute. "You were loser-free for an entire academic quarter! It was the perfect chance to dump the chump and move up to something with some class!"

"Look, Bonnie! For the last time, Ron and I…"

"Oh, puh-_lease!_ Don't go off with that 'we love each other' crud again." Bonnie snapped, cutting Kim off. "Stoppable is just not socially acceptable, _period._ Maybe he was marginally acceptable when he was playing football, but football season ended back in December, already! He's not even a border-line jock anymore!"

"Oh really?" a fourth voice suddenly called out from behind her, grabbing the leggy brunette's attention. "I take it being a _fighter jock_ doesn't count, then?"

Bonnie's eyes instantly grew to the size of hubcaps as she spun around to face the verbal intruder. There, standing just a scant four feet away, was a sight she never could have dreamed possible, and that she would never be able to forget.

With his books tucked firmly under his left arm, Ron stood tall, his presence seeming to fill the hallway. Displaying a set of broad shoulders and narrow hips, his figure looked to have been turned upside-down from what it had been previously. Wearing a pair of dark-blue slacks with a red stripe running down the seam, the colors set well against his short-sleeved, khaki dress shirt. He wore his pilot's wings over his heart, and the stripes and rockers upon his shoulders were dark blue, outlined in red. Twin red shoulder loops swung beneath his right armpit, indicating the status of team-leader that he had worked so hard to attain, and riding high above it all was the white officer's hat with all of its resplendent decoration.

He regarded the now babbling brunette before him with hooded eyes, smiling inwardly to him self. After all the flak that she had put him through over the years, and all of the grief she had caused him, this was most definitely a moment to be savored: The queen of the Middleton High School social pyramid, transformed into a stumbling, mumbling, incoherent mound of gelatinous disbelief, and all of it by means of his very presence. Oh _yeah,_ this was pure gold!

After several self-satisfying moments, Ron finally decided that enough was enough. He casually strode forward, brushing Bonnie aside as he went.

"One side, _civie!"_ he scoffed as he passed.

The blow-off of Bonnie was stunning to say the least, and it captured the attention of everyone who happened to be in the hallway at that particular moment. What happened next, however, was shocking to the point of registering on the Richter scale.

Walking directly up to Kim, Ron wrapped his free arm around her back, and completely heedless of the school's iron clad anti-PDA policy, dipped her into a kiss that curled the toes of every female student within visual range.

Momentarily stunned by Ron's suddenly fearless behavior, Kim quickly gave into the kiss, allowing the euphoric rush to course through her entire body. Closing her eyes and savoring the experience, she felt for a brief moment as though she was floating: Drifting silently and serenely on a gossamer cloud of pure contentment, wrapped in a silky-fine veil of rapturous bliss.

Never before had Ron so completely swept her off her feet like this. Such assertive behavior was simply not his forte. Although the kiss was still overloading her synapses with a frenzy of stimulation, she retained just enough cognitive ability to reason that such forwardness was most likely another side effect of his training: An unexpected surprise that came along with the overall package.

And oh, how she couldn't wait to find out what other surprises he had in store for her.

After several seconds, Ron finally broke the kiss, returning Kim to a standing position. A self-satisfied smile creased his face as he duly noted Kim's bewildered grin and ragged gasps for air.

"Good morning." He said simply, never breaking his smile.

"And a spankin' good morning to you, too." Kim enthusiastically gasped, still trying to catch her breath.

"After a lip-lock like that, any morning would be a good morning." Monique panned from the sideline, displaying a smile to match those of her two companions.

"True that." Kim observed dreamily.

"Sooooo… Step back and let a sista' check out those new threads, fly boy!" Monique commanded, carefully looking Ron up and down.

"Yeah, the ol' wardrobe was in need of a boost." Ron replied as he stepped away from Kim and spread his arms wide. "Whaddya think?"

"As the school's chief fashion diva, I'll give it a passing grade." The African-American girl conceded. "The khaki plays well against your eyes."

"Well, the Ronster always did know how to accessorize." Ron sang, rubbing a fist proudly across his chest.

"Since when." Monique asked, raising an eyebrow.

"Well… Since never, truthfully," Ron sheepishly admitted, "but it seemed like the right thing to say just now."

Monique simply smiled and nodded in response.

"_Two points for me."_ She thought to herself. _"Man, I am on a roll today!"_

"Well, as much as I'd like to hang around with y'all and go through the whole style file on rocket man here," Monique admitted, "I've gotta be gettin' to class."

"Catch ya' later, Monique!" Kim called out to the African-American girl's receding form.

"Flip side, girl!" Ron shouted, gesturing for effect.

"So, has Mr. Barkin seen you in the new get up?" Kim asked, turning to Ron with an equal touch of both amusement and concern. Given the assistant vice principal's military background and apparent disdain for the tow-headed boy, seeing Ron in such a fashion would undoubtedly provoke some sort of reaction.

"Yeah, our paths crossed back during second period." Ron lamented, allowing his face to fall slightly.

"And?" Kim prodded.

"And he went off on a rant, calling it 'blasphemy' and a bunch of other words I don't know the meanings of." Ron said, rolling his eyes. "You know… Typical Barkin stuff."

"Well, I'm sure he'll get used to the idea." Kim observed, trying to cheer her boyfriend up a bit.

"You think I should point out to _Lieutenant_ Barkin that I technically outrank him?" Ron pondered aloud.

"Don't think that's your best move, unless you want to become Middleton High's first-ever student to be listed as MIA."

"Yeah… Fair 'nuff."

Stuffing one final notebook into her backpack, Kim slammed the door to her locker and turned to face her lifelong friend. He certainly did look good in that uniform, she couldn't help but admit to herself.

"I never got a chance to ask you, by the way…" she thoughtfully inquired. "Just out of curiosity, how would you rate the overall experience?"

"Hmmmmm… Well, that depends." Ron answered, thoughtfully stroking his chin.

"Depends on what?"

"On what experience we're talking about?"

"Your joining the Eagles." Kim clarified, rolling her eyes.

"Ohhhh, riiiiiight… _That_ experience." Ron replied, lightly smacking his palm against his forehead. "Well, you know how it goes. There were a few patches of bad road along the way, but overall, I'm glad I did it."

"Well that makes two of us." Kim agreed, flashing an adoring smile in his direction.

"Yeah, the Eagles have certainly been a good thing for the Ron-man." Ron sighed, putting his hands casually behind his head and leaning back against the bank of lockers. "Doesn't matter whether you're flying combat recon, shredding tanks or splashing Migs… S'all good in the hood."

"Wait a sec… rewind… What was that you just said?" Kim asked, her voice suddenly jumping an octave with excitement.

"I said it's all good in the hood."

"No, no… before that."

"Splashing Migs?"

"Before that."

"Combat recon?"

"After that."

"Shredding tanks?"

"That's it! When were you ever 'shredding tanks,' as you put it?"

"Hmmmm… About two months ago, I guess. I'm not really sure, honestly. With all that's happened, everything just kind of blurs together."

"And how did that come about?"

"Everything blurring together? I thought I just explain…"

"No Ron! The 'shredding tanks' thing! How did _that_ come about?"

"Oh… Well, I was stationed out in So Cal, training with the A-10, and I got a call about some GJ ground pounders that were in a pinch."

"And you gave an assist?"

"Well, _duh…_ yeah. It's what we do, after all."

"And let me guess… You nailed six, right?" Kim asked, her voice starting to quiver slightly.

"Well, five, to be honest." Ron admitted. "By the time I showed up, somebody else had already gotten one of them. But then again, there was that chopper I thrashed with the fifty cals. I wonder if that counts toward… _Oooof!!_"

Ron suddenly felt the air being driven from his lungs as 105 pounds of girlfriend drove him backward into the lockers, wrapping him up in an embrace that threatened to crack his ribs, and made regaining his breath a daunting task. For several seconds he simply looked down at the trembling form of Kim, who had by now buried her face deep into his chest. It was clear that he had struck a nerve just now, and he had a growing suspicion of just what that nerve was.

"I'm gonna go out on a limb here…" he asked once Kim had loosened her grip enough to allow normal breathing. "I'm guessing you were the GJ ground operative?"

Kim pulled her face back just enough to nod slightly, letting Ron know that he was dead on the money with his assumption. Then, she promptly dove back into him, allowing him to wrap his arms tightly around her shoulders and simply hold her close to him. She had spent the past several weeks fruitlessly trying to determine the identity her savior on that blistering hot afternoon in the Mojave. Now, knowing just who it had been, Kim mentally chastised herself for not figuring it out sooner.

"_Who else could it ever have been?"_ she silently berated herself. _"Who else always has my back? He's like my guardian angel: He's always there when I need him."_

For well over a minute, she simply stood there, allowing herself to be enveloped by the arms of her eternal protector. She knew that as long as she was with him, nothing in the world could ever hurt her. This was simply a function of who he was: Neither his soul nor his spirit would ever allow any such harm to befall her.

She felt as though she could stay this way forever, slowly merging into the strong form of her life's love, but any such fantasies were quickly shattered by a familiar four-tone beep.

"What?" Kim growled, activating the small device strapped to her wrist.

"Oooh, bad time?" Wade inquired, clearly intimidated by the harsh greeting.

"Ferociously." Kim replied tersely. "Ron just got back, and we were trying to…"

"Whoa! Need to know basis, here, Kim!" Wade suddenly interrupted.

"Mind out of the gutter, Wade! It was nothing like that. So what's up?" Kim pressed, clearly wanting to move the conversation along.

"Trouble." The young web master replied. "The Seniors are up to their old tricks in Italy."

"Where in Italy?" Kim asked, now genuinely curious.

"Pisa." Wade answered flatly.

"Eh, no thanks dude. I just ate." Ron broke in with a dismissive shrug.

"Ron, that's 'Pisa,' not _'pizza.'"_ Kim groaned before returning her attention to the image of Wade on her screen.

"So if the Seniors are in Pisa, then I'm guessing the sitch has something to do with the tower… comma… leaning?" Kim postulated aloud.

"That would be a good guess."

"Triple 'S' and company are gonna steal the Leaning Tower of Pisa?" Ron inquired from behind Kim. "Man, that's some serious tonnage."

"Actually, they're going to straighten it." Wade informed them in his characteristically professional tone.

"Come again?" Kim asked, very much confused by this revelation.

"Uh… Admittedly, I'm no architectural expert," Ron thought aloud, "but isn't that kinda like… oh I don't know… _'fixing'_ the thing?"

"Not really." Wade replied.

"Okay… Really think I'm missing something." Kim prodded the young genius.

"It's simple." Wade continued. "Would you pay to see the 'Perfectly Straight Tower of Pisa?'"

"Hmmmm… As much as I do admire good symmetry," Ron admitted, "I'm gonna have to vote 'no' on this one."

"And that sounds like the sort of thing that could wreck a tourism-based economy." Kim observed, quickly catching on to the plot.

"Exactly!" Wade confirmed. "The Seniors are threatening to straighten the tower unless the local governments pay them a ransom."

"How much is the ransom?" Ron asked, peering at the tiny screen from over Kim's shoulder.

"A gazillion dollars." Came Wade's flat reply.

"Why do I get the feeling that Junior is organizing the demands again." Kim panned, rolling her eyes for effect.

"I'd say that's a good probability." Wade replied. "I'm working on a ride now. It shouldn't take but a few minutes."

"Actually, Wade… Don't bother." Kim shot back with a smile, catching the pre-teen tech genius off guard. She shot a knowing grin toward Ron, who quickly mirrored her expression.

"We've already got that covered."

"But wait… How are you…"

"Talk to ya' when we're on the ground, Wade! Bye!"

"Hold on, Kim! Where are…"

Kim severed the connection, then turned to Ron.

"You ready for this, fly boy?" she asked with a grin.

"Booyah!" Ron replied with a grin of his own. "I was born ready, KP."

"I thought you were born two weeks late." Kim playfully ribbed her blond-headed boyfriend.

"Hey! There was a jam-up at the exit, okay!" Ron responded, just as playfully. "I got here eventually, didn't I?"

"Too true." Kim replied with an ever-widening smile. "Now let's go suit up. I'll meet you back here in five."

* * *

Five minutes later, the front doors to Middleton High burst open, revealing a familiar sight that had been conspicuously absent for the past three months: Two figures in full action gear bolting down the steps toward the student parking lot, one of them trailing a long mane of flame-red hair.

Moments later, they had reached their objective: An aging Vespa scooter, which had recently received one very extreme makeover.

The tired, single-cylinder engine and its tendency to burn more oil than gas was gone, replaced by a twin-cylinder block boasting 1,200 c.c.s of turbocharged badage. The numerous dents that once lined the bodywork had been removed, and the revamped exterior boasted a two-tone silver and black paint scheme with chrome accents. The suspension had been upgraded, and the wire cargo basket on the front was gone, replaced by a pair of detachable, hard-sided equipment boxes that were carried aboard quick-release mounts set to either side of the rear fender. It was fast, it was nimble, and it could get both the teens and their gear to missions in style.

"You ready for this?" Ron asked, securing the chinstrap of his helmet and mounting the bike.

"Let's light this candle!" Kim enthusiastically replied, climbing on behind him.

"Then get on, sit down, shut up and hang on!" Ron shouted, revving the engine and squeezing the clutch.

Kim quickly complied, wrapping her arms snugly around Ron's waist. It was something she had done countless times since he had first received the scooter, but it had taken a whole new significance in the months since the nature of their relationship had so drastically changed. What once had been a simple necessity of the situation had now become an experience all its own. It was an opportunity to surreptitiously cuddle with him: A wonderful chance for PDA in a way that would never appear out of the ordinary or draw suspicion.

Drawing herself tight against Ron's backside, Kim barely noticed when Ron popped the clutch and peeled out of the parking lot, leaving a trail of smoking rubber in his wake. Exiting the lot in a fishtail slide, he turned onto the main road and popped a wheelie as he accelerated toward the freeway; Kim's long, crimson locks trailing behind them like a banner.

Weaving their way through afternoon traffic at breakneck speed, it wasn't long before the two teens were at the main service gate to Middleton Airport. After a quick check of their ID, they were past the guard kiosk and roaring down an access road that ran behind a long row of hangars.

About half way down the row, Ron pulled a hard left-hand turn toward a large hangar with two antechambers flanking its sides. At the same time, Kim relinquished Ron's waist with one hand and reached down to activate a small remote that was clipped to her belt. A roll-up door quickly opened, allowing access to one of the antechambers.

Coming to a stop inside the large room, Ron deployed the bike's kickstand and both teens dismounted, grabbing the equipment boxes from the rear fender as they did so. The room was a "dual-purpose" sort of affair, with the rear area serving as a garage of sorts for the bike. The forward section was officially considered a "ready room," although it bore a closer resemblance to a break room, featuring such amenities as a sofa and plasma television, a kitchenette, bathroom, and a pair of lockers bearing their names. It was these last items to which the teens now directed their attention, withdrawing a pair of flight suits, which they quickly donned over their regular mission clothes.

The space was downright homey, Kim had to admit. It was a place to prepare and receive Wade's briefings when departing for a mission, and a place to decompress and unwind when returning. Most importantly, it was a place that she and Ron could go for privacy when they just wanted to be alone for a while. Here, surrounded by soundproof walls and pass-code protected doors, the outside world could never intrude. This was a place where it could just be the two of them, enjoying each other's company and loosing themselves in each other's warm embrace.

Kim shuddered slightly at the thought of what the other antechamber contained. At first glance, it appeared to be nothing more than a simple storage room, containing the normal assortment of tools and maintenance supplies that one would expect to find in an operating airport hangar.

Looks, however, can be very deceiving.

Carefully concealed within the floor, a pop-up trap door provided access to a large freight elevator. Descending vertically over 50 feet into solid bedrock, the elevator's shaft opened up into an expansive storage bunker, filled with all the weapons and ammunition that could conceivably be carried aloft by a modern strike fighter. It was an arsenal that would be the envy of most small countries, and it was just below their feet.

The reason for such a stockpile, however, currently resided in the large hangar between these two, smaller wings.

Dashing out of the ready room through a pair of double doors, motion activated lights flared to life, flooding the cavernous space with illumination. At the center of it all, Sky Rat stood at the ready. Pre-fueled and armed, it was a quick and simple process to start the engines and be on their way.

"You get this bird up and running!" Kim shouted, ducking under one of the wings. "I'll get the wheel chocks!"

"Never argue with a woman!" Ron smiled, quickly ascending the folding ladder that deployed from the Tomcat's side. It was mere seconds before the tell-tale whine of compressors churning to life filled the hangar.

Feeling the airframe rock slightly as Kim plopped herself down into the seat behind him, Ron activated the remote opener for the hangar's main door, allowing the outside breeze to suddenly fill the expansive room. A few moments later, a light on the control panel in front of him indicated that pre-charging of the engines was complete. Pushing another two buttons along the right side of the cockpit, the hangar reverberated as the roar of ignition shook the entire building to its foundation. The canopy closed and he released the parking brake, allowing the massive fighter to slowly roll forward onto the tarmac.

"Okay, I just got confirmation from the tower." Kim called out from her seat in the back. "We're cleared for take-off. Flight plan has us proceeding north to 48,000 feet, then injecting into a sub-orbital trajectory from there. We should be arriving over southern Europe in about half-an-hour."

"Sounds like a plan to me, KP." Ron replied. He smiled, thinking that this really was the only way to travel. Trips that had once involved an entire day of being crammed into a cramped, drafty, bumpy, rust-bucket of a cargo plane could now be taken in relative comfort, and involved a time frame of minutes rather than hours. Sometimes, he was _soooo_ glad he had decided to join up.

Moving into position at the end of the runway, Ron mad a final, cursory check of his instruments. Finding nothing unusual, he chanced a glance back over his shoulder at the gorgeous redhead seated behind him.

"Ready back there?" he asked simply.

"You'd better believe it, fly boy." Kim replied, beaming a radiant smile back at her lifelong companion. "Let's jet!"

_**- The End -**_

* * *

**Author's Notes:**

Well… Time to crack open a root beer, kick back, and celebrate another one done and in the can.

Looking back, I still find it had to believe just how much this story has outgrown my original outline. It's literally more than twice as long as I originally intended. I guess there's a lesson about "best-laid plans" or some other trite saying in here, but I'll be darned if I know what it is. Live and don't learn: That's me.

Once again, I'd like to take this opportunity to thank all of my wonderful readers and reviewers. Your insights and interest is often times what keeps me pushing forward when writer's block comes calling and I don't feel like much of an author. I believe it's been said by more than one person that reviews are like crack to writers: The rush can be downright addictive, and I think I'm now a bona fide junkie. Thanks one and all for being my dealers!

I honestly can't say for certain how long I've had this idea rolling around inside my head, but I know it's been quite a while. Anybody's guess is as good as mine regarding what finally compelled me to actually sit down and write it out, but looking back on everything now, I'm glad that I did.

Looking toward the future, I have strong ideas for a pair of one-shots that I'll probably bang out next. After that, there's another multi-chapter work that I'm thinking about doing, but my ideas for this one are still somewhat sketchy, and the story will need a lot of fleshing out before I actually start writing anything.

All in all, it's been a wonderful ride, and I thank you all for joining me. Good luck to you all, and I'll be seeing you around the site!

_Nutzkie…_


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